


Stopped Time

by Lunelily



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, But he sure does love his job, Cecil is Human, Cecil's cell phone, Eventual Resolution and Fluff, Finally finished, Horror, Kevin is evil, M/M, Slight spoilers, Suspense, Trigger warning: slight blood/gore and non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2017-12-30 19:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunelily/pseuds/Lunelily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil wakes up happy, but something's not quite right...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Outage

            The morning sunlight filtered in softly through the curtains and blinds, throwing delicate, dancing patterns on the bedsheets. Cecil, eyes just open, softly drummed his fingers on the sheet and watched the sunlight dance on his hand for a moment before rolling over with a smile.

            There was no one beside him.

            Cecil sat up. “Carlos?” he called, fully expecting a light beneath the bathroom door, or a cheerful, answering call from somewhere else in the house.

            The sunlight continued filtering in, casting shadowy, barred light on the blankets, but there was no reply.

            Cecil swung his legs to the edge of the bed and stretched, his shoulders cracking and his long fingers extending all the way out, a muffled hum of a moan in his throat, before standing up and looking around quizzically. Carlos' phone sat on top of the dresser, and his lab coat was hanging untouched on the bedroom door. Cecil grinned and called again, playfully, “Carlos! I know you’re still here!”

            But the house was quiet.

            Cecil bent down and reached for the lamp, turning the knob until it clicked, hollowly, over and over. It stayed off. The usual homey hum from the air conditioning was absent, leaving the house silent. The electricity must have gone out.

            Carlos was probably just down in the basement, fiddling with the wires and doing other intelligent, science-y things to try to get the power back. Or, perhaps he’d gone outside to inspect the power lines around town to determine the cause of the outage. That was his Carlos, always looking for that scientific explanation! Or _maybe_ the effects of those undetectable earthquakes were finally appearing! Carlos would be so thrilled! Cecil grinned and sighed happily at the thought of his favorite scientist's eyes lit with excitement. But his smile faded a little as he glanced again at the lab coat hung on the door from the night before. _How weird that he left without his coat,_ Cecil thought, a bit disconcertedly. _That is not like Carlos at all._

            Cecil opened the bedroom door, making sure to touch the faded coat hanging on it as he left, then burying his face in it—Carlos' scent still lingered on it, and he breathed it in contentedly for a while (just to make sure it was not a mirage, of course)—before wandering into the kitchen barefoot. He glanced around, but there was no sign of Carlos having eaten anything for breakfast. Even the coffee maker was cold. _Duty calls,_ thought Cecil wistfully, mentally promising that the very _first_ thing he would do when he found Carlos was drag him into the kitchen and make him pancakes. Science could wait! But a glance at the microwave’s digital clock—or rather, its black screen—reminded him that the electricity was out. Of _course_ Carlos couldn’t make coffee. Or pancakes, for that matter, Cecil thought sadly. But…where was Carlos now? Cecil checked every room of the house for any clues or sign of him, but the bathroom was perfectly tidy (just as he'd left it the night before), the kitchen was certainly untouched, and Carlos wasn't in any of the rooms.

            Well, there was only one place left in the house. Cecil walked down the hall to the basement entrance, knocking on the trapdoor. “Carlos, are you down there?” he called. No reply. He pulled at the handle anyway. Then strained. Then heaved, putting all his weight into it, his heart beating a little faster at the exertion.  _Weird,_  thought Cecil, a little uneasily.  _There was no lock here_ yesterday _. Perhaps they're mandatory nowadays, and they just haven't had me announce it yet._ “Carlos?” he called anxiously, knocking uncharacteristically loudly this time. He laid down and put his ear to the wood. All he heard was the pounding of his own heart, which echoed faintly in his ears.

            Cecil got up and stared at it for a moment. Then he marched to the front door and pulled it open, squinting into the already-bright morning desert sun as he peered down the street. Both his and Carlos’ cars still sat in the driveway, but Cecil walked out and placed his hand on both cars. As he frowned at their realness, he caught sight of a movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked up—lab coat!—and his heart soared, but then settled a bit deflatedly when he realized it was merely one of Carlos' assistants, walking along the sidewalk with her clipboard and briefcase in hand.

            "Kathleen!" he called out, blushing slightly at the thought of how silly he must look in his pajamas, barefoot, standing out in the middle of his driveway.

            "Hi, Cecil!" she called, a bit bemusedly. Cecil blushed a little deeper, but would not let that deter him.

            "Are you headed to the lab?" he asked, walking hurriedly down the driveway to meet her.

            "Yes, I finally finished collecting some data for Carlos," she said as she approached. She stopped and gave him a warm smile. "I was just on my way back." She glanced at her watch, a little frown creasing her face.

            Cecil breathed a sigh of relief and smiled brightly as the weight he hadn't realized had settled heavily on his shoulders began to lift. "Oh, that's _wonderful_ news. So he's already at work!" _Of course he is, you silly, lovesick, worrywart, Cecil._

            Kathleen looked up at him intently. "Carlos, you mean? No, actually, he's not. He asked me to take these samples last night, before he left. I haven't seen him since."

            Cecil's smile faded, and his heart sank into his shoes.

            "You mean he has not gone in this morning at all? You are absolutely certain?" Cecil asked, a paranoid dread making his stomach clench.

            "As positive as a proton," she said, glancing at her watch again, then back up at his eyes, her own full of concern. "Sorry, but I've really gotta run, Cecil. I'll call you and let you know if he's there when I get to the lab, okay?"

            "Oh! I appreciate it!" Cecil said, his smile returning hesitantly, but weakly, and not half as brightly as before.

            Kathleen gave him a sympathetic look, said "I hope everything turns out alright between you two," and walked off, continuing down the sidewalk towards the lab. Cecil walked back up his driveway to the door, resting his hand on the doorway, his mind spinning. He suddenly whirled around and ran back into the driveway.

            "Kathleen!" Cecil yelled.

            She was already halfway down the street. She turned around, though, bless her. "Yes?" she responded, a little impatiently.

            "Is your electricity out?" Cecil called, a little edge to his own voice.

            "Um, no," she yelled back after a startled pause, "It's working fine at my house this morning. And in the lab. Why?"

            "Oh, don't worry about it," Cecil called back, his voice now audibly strained.

            Kathleen looked rather worried, but after one last quizzical glance back at Cecil, she resumed striding quickly down the street.

            Cecil walked back into his home, closing the door behind him. The house was very, very quiet. Carlos wouldn't have left him. Not without a word. Not without any warning. Carlos was too wonderful and good for that. Carlos should have _known_ that being gone without a trace would have worried him. So _why had he left?_ What science could possibly be so important that he _had not told Cecil_ needed tending to? _Oh, dear,_ Cecil thought after glancing at the microwave clock, which was of course black and lifeless. _I should have asked her the time, too._

            Cecil closed the door and walked, thinking very hard, to his bedroom. However, once he was halfway to his bed stand he stopped cold, put one hand on the bed to steady himself. He was frozen, staring at the little table with the lamp, where he always put his glasses and cell phone and, most importantly, the little wristwatch beautiful Carlos has given them for their wonderful one month anniversary.

            His glasses were there. He stepped forward and picked them up, unfolding them gently, carefully, and put them on, blinking at the bed stand, as if that would make it different, as if it were only his eyes deceiving him—but the only two things on his little table were his cell phone (still asleep) and the lamp.

            The wristwatch was gone.

            And somehow, as he searched the ground frantically on his knees, rifled through the neatly organized drawer, and felt around with his spindly fingers under the bed, he knew he hadn’t lost it, and it hadn’t fallen. He had set it there only last night, he _remembered_. It was  _gone_ , without explanation, like a certain wonderful scientist, and Cecil suddenly knew in his heart with a sickening certainty that something was very, very wrong.


	2. Hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Secret Police keep tabs on everyone...right?

            Cecil was in the kitchen, snatching the rechargeable, battery-powered house phone out of its cradle, dialing Carlos, tapping his foot fretfully at it began to ring—his heart sinking yet again as he heard Carlos’ phone go off in the bedroom—immediately dialing the number of the Sherriff’s Secret Police. It rang twice. “Cecil Palmer,” answered the gruff voice of a secret policeman.

            “Yes,” Cecil said, a bit breathlessly at first. But now, over the medium of a phone call to professionals, Cecil automatically switched to radio persona, his voice steadying, deepening, and slowing. “I need to know the current whereabouts of Carlos the Scientist. He has  _gone_  and I  _do not know where._ ” His voice was so dark—so ominous—that he felt an involuntary shiver crawl up his spine.

            For a moment, he was met with silence. But then—“Mr. Palmer…I’m not officially allowed to tell you like this, but…neither do we,” the voice said grimly. For a moment, he didn’t react. But then his brain fully registered the information; he almost dropped the phone. His violet eyes grew wide, their ordinarily unusually large pupils shrinking into nothing but specks. The Sherriff’s Secret Police always kept tabs on _everyone._ They had _helicopters_ that could _read minds._ How could they _not know_ where Carlos was? He gripped the countertop, feeling his heart begin to race.

            “Our helicopters lost track of him at 0500 today,” the secret policeman continued tonelessly. There was a brief noise of shuffling papers. “From the mind readings, it looks…sort of like he sleepwalked down the hall, right into your basement. But then the readings stop. And the house was dark, of course, so our Secret Police on duty could not confirm any visual activity. I’m only telling you because you’re scheduled to warn your listeners about it today, anyway. I wouldn’t worry, Mr. Palmer. He’s probably just existing somewhere else right now. You know how it is.”

            “Oh. Thank you,” said Cecil slowly as he lowered the phone from his ear. Growing panic whirled in his mind. He set the phone back in its cradle and ran to the basement, sinking to his knees in front of the trapdoor. “Carlos?  _CARLOS_?  _Can you hear me?!  Are you alright?!_ ” Cecil pounded again and again on the wooden surface, alternating between beating helplessly on its surface and pressing the side of his face to it, hoping,  _praying_  to every god and bloodstone circle and glow cloud he knew for some sort of sign, or just  _something,_ feeling sicker to his stomach with every second of silence that passed. “Carlos, _please!_ Unlock the door!”

            The doorbell rang.

            Cecil scrambled up to his feet and stumbled to the door, his heart galloping, ripping the door open, hoping with every last shred of his heart it would somehow be—

            —it was a deliveryman, standing there with a clipboard and a very small package, blinking in surprise at Cecil, who blinked back owlishly. For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then Cecil warily looked down at himself. He could feel the heat rush to his cheeks; his purple pajamas were wrinkled and disheveled from scrambling around, and his hair was probably a complete mess. He smoothed one hand over it self-consciously, straightening up and trying to look less…abjectly terrified. “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” he asked, almost perfectly smoothly, unable to keep a slight quivering out of his voice.

            “Mr. Palmer? Just sign here,” the deliveryman said, still looking a bit unsettled, and handed Cecil the clipboard.

            Cecil, trying very hard to stop his hands from shaking, quickly scrawled his spidery flourish across the paper and took the package, thanking the man and closing the door behind him. He pressed his back against the door and slid down it to the floor. He stared at the return address. Or, rather, where the return address should be. There was no address, only two obnoxiously happy stickers: one of a smiley face, and the other, a sun. The little box itself wasn’t hard to open at all; the tape was fresh. Very fresh. He peeled it away, lifted the small cardboard flaps, and peered inside.

            His breath caught. A worn, achingly familiar wristwatch stared back at him from inside the box. He pulled it out tenderly, setting the box in his lap, and held the timepiece up to see. It was stopped. Dead stopped. He slowly moved it, in horror, up to his ear, giving it one, delicate little shake. Quiet. Its tiny little ticks, always reliable, always there—were  _gone_.

            Cecil gasped, the beginning of a sob. He choked on it painfully, pressing the watch to his heart with cold, trembling fingers, as if that would save it, bring it back to life. He _knew_ he didn’t understand how Carlos’ watch worked. But all clocks in Night Vale  _had_  no explanation—they just worked, all on their own, forever. Holding his silent, stopped watch—“the one true timepiece in all of Night Vale,” he whispered hollowly—was like grasping a cold, lifeless body of a songbird. Broken, dead, and forever, irreversibly empty.

            Hot tears now pooling in his eyes, Cecil pulled out one last thing from the little box. A folded note, typewritten. It was quite difficult to read, as his eyes were swimming.

_Voice of Night Vale—_

_We have Carlos. This watch is your warning. Do not attempt to enter your basement. Read the notice below on your show today, exactly as it’s written, and we’ll let him go, mostly unharmed! But if anyone tries to interfere, or if we find your reading subpar in any way, we’ll kill him and deliver the corpse…_

            Cecil felt the paper slip from his fingers.

 

 

            He found himself frantically dialing the Secret Police on his kitchen phone. He mistyped the number four times because he could barely control his violently shaking hands. Tears streaked his cheeks as he held the phone to his ear. Only half a ring passed before they picked up. “Cecil—”

            “Please,” Cecil begged, his voice cracking, broken. “ _Please_ do not interfere!”

            “Mr. Palmer,” the unfamiliar female voice repeated firmly, “We have a duty to serve and protect all citizens of Night Vale from outside—”

            “Don't!” he shrieked into the phone. His free hand went to his forehead, clenching his own hair, and sobs wracked his body. “Do _not_ , p-please, you saw what they wrote, they will _kill him!”_

            “ _Mr. Palmer_ , listen to me. We’re just going to—”

            “NO!” he screamed, collapsing to the floor. “Please, _please_ don’t interfere, _swear to me that you won’t,_ promise me, please, oh, God, not Carlos…”

            “…okay, Cecil, CECIL, we won’t!” the secret policewoman yelled through the phone. “Listen to me! That’s a promise. You got that? We _won’t_ interfere with your reading on the radio! Now _calm down!_ Angels’ blood!" she swore.

            Cecil tried to control his frighteningly erratic breaths, blinking away his copious tears. They wouldn’t interfere. He had their word. They _wouldn’t_. He winced tearfully as he painstakingly uncurled his fingers and loosed their grip on his hair, still shivering from head to toe. The secret policeman waited patiently until he had quieted, his sobs settling into shivering breaths.

            “Much better. Now. Here’s the plan. You—”

            “NO! I can’t, _I can’t!”_ Cecil leapt to his feet and slammed the phone into its cradle, rapidly backing away from it as if it might explode. He found himself pressed against the kitchen wall, staring at the phone. He was sobbing. “No plans,” he choked. _Don’t you understand? They have_ Carlos.

            The phone rang. Shrilly. But the seemed to grow farther and farther away, like an echo, surreal, until he could hardly hear it at all. Time seemed to slow down, and everything faded away into shadows. Time…stopped.

            Cecil turned away and drifted, ghost-like, across the house. Somehow, he made it to his bedroom, and he watched but couldn’t feel his arm reach out and open the closet door. From inside the darkness, his white cuffed shirts, purple and black vests, ties, and black work pants stared back at him. His cell phone went off abruptly, jolting it awake, but he didn’t turn around, its vibration lost to his ears as it scuttled frantically and confusedly across the table.

            He had to get ready. He was never, _ever_ late for work.


	3. Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil must choose between two evils. But he might not even make it to that...and it might already be too late.

                _Everyone_ asked if he was okay. Again and again, Cecil had to lie, had to tell them he was fine, just a bit tired, just feeling a little under the weather. Cecil cursed himself helplessly for always wearing his heart on his sleeve. Rumors made their rounds quicker than Cecil could walk, and soon every eye wore a sympathetic, knowing look when he passed. Cecil’s headache throbbed, and he let them stare all they liked, too drained—yet somehow absolutely wired, everything twenty times louder and more colorful and more painful—to care.

                As he walked by Station Management’s door, a low buzz began to emanate from inside, raising in pitch to a hair-raising high, rattling the room’s widows at resonance frequency. Some sort of mahogany-teal-colored syrup began to ooze out from under their door. Cecil smiled tiredly and waved, hoping with half his heart that they would just put him out of his misery. If anything, the oozing only intensified. Oh, for heaven’s sake, it was almost as if they were being _sympathetic_ , he realized. Was it _really_ that bad—that terribly _obvious?_

                Cecil sat at his desk and massaged his temples, trying to relieve the pounding, near-blinding headache plaguing his brain, sincerely hoping for everyone to leave him alone.

                Immediately there was a sharp rap on the door, and the sound of it swinging open before he’d even said a word.

                Cecil looked up wearily. It was Intern Marla, probably his least favorite intern—not that he _picked_ favorites, of course. “G’morning, Mr. Palmer. I gotta say, few of us have noticed you’re looking really off today. You wanna talk about it? Can I get you something?” she asked emphatically, boring into his soul with large, sharp, brown eyes.

                A bit like Carlos’ eyes, Cecil thought, and his aching mind suddenly filled with thoughts of his beloved scientist, taking his breath right out of his chest.

                “Mr. _Palmer_?”

                Cecil flinched, brutally shoving images of Carlos from his mind. _Oh, angels' blood. What was the question?_

                “Um, no, I don’t, I’m not—I mean, yes, Car— _Mar_ la _,_ I…” Cecil buried his head in his hands. “Some _coffee_ would be nice,” he managed.

                Marla just stared at him for a second. But Cecil couldn’t look up, not at those eyes, not again. After an eternity of tense silence, she finally turned around, and strode out of the booth, pulling the door closed as she yelled, “Hey! New guy! Bring Cecil a cup of coffee!”

                Cecil shifted his head in his hands, pressing his palms tenderly over his eyes, his long fingers trailing up into his hair. He realized hopelessly that this was the last time he’d ever be in this chair, at this studio. The last time he’d ask an intern for coffee. The last time he’d ever speak on air to his listeners. _How can you do this to them, Cecil? You are a terrible radio host; you_ deserve _to be fired after this. But otherwise, they'll—_

                He lifted his head, with a highly pained wince, to distract himself, staring at the clock. Only minutes to go now, but he willed it to hurry up because if he didn’t do this soon— _you are a soulless, heartless being, Cecil Gershwin Palmer, and this will_ not _be forgotten_ —he feared he would break down right there in the booth.

                There was a timid knock on the door. Mitchell, the newest intern, came in carrying a steaming cup of coffee.

                “Just the way you like it, they told me,” he said. “But I brought extra sugar, uh, just in case.” Before Cecil could begin to summon enough strength to reply, Mitchell had done a double take of Cecil’s expression, staring at him a little sideways. _Oh, dear, here it comes_ —

                “Are…are you feeling alright, Cecil? Ah, I mean, Mr. Palmer, sir,” Mitchell asked very hesitantly. “I heard…I mean, you look a little…?”

                Cecil forced a smile that he could feel cracking at the corners. “I feel… _incredible_ , Mitchell.” That was almost the truth! It took every ounce of his willpower not to burst into tears right then and there. “Thank you…and thanks for the coffee.”

                Mitchell looked at him very strangely, to be sure, but dropped the subject after only a moment or two with a slightly uneasy “you’re welcome, sir” and edged out of the booth, closing the door behind him.

                Cecil wrapped his fingers around the cup. It was blessedly, comfortingly warm, like being held in the arms of—oh, masters of us all, he _couldn’t,_ or his heart would break. He picked up the cup and downed its contents in one gulp to prevent the thought, focusing on the scalding, fiery liquid as it burned his throat and tongue and singed his upped mouth. The flare of scorching pain was astonishingly real, anchoring him, giving him an urgent physical sensation to distract from his distress. Setting the cup down gratefully, tapping his burned tongue experimentally around his mouth, he happened to glance at the hallway outside the booth. Mitchell stood absolutely frozen there, wearing an expression of horror, deep concern, and shock.

                _He saw._ Cecil felt his heart stop. _Cecil, you absolute_ fool! _What if he tells someone I’m not fit to do the show?_ Cecil's eyes shot wide open in terror. He locked his gaze with Mitchell, begging him, _pleading_ him not to do anything, to stay quiet—

                Mitchell stared back, looking utterly confused. He shook his head a little bit, then got this determined look in his eye and began walking toward the booth, his hand outstretched, reaching for the door.

                Cecil’s eyes widened larger and larger with every step until he felt like his head might burst. He pressed one hand over his mouth, the other arm hugging himself tightly around the middle, fighting back tears, his eyes shining. It was all over. But he held eye contact, still begging, still pleading, and as Mitchell, who was—oddly—slowing down, grasped the door handle, a single tear slipped down Cecil’s cheek.

                Mitchell froze, one hand on the door. Both of them were turned to stone, their only communication the sight of each other’s locked, wide eyes.

                Slowly, Mitchell released the door handle, his eyes never leaving Cecil’s. Cecil felt the _tiniest_ bit of panic—the smallest bit of terror—slip away. He held his breath. Mitchell backed up, one step, two, slowly, all the way down the hall, until finally he got far enough away that Cecil shuddered in relief, letting out a huge, shattered sigh, his eyes slipping closed. When they opened again, Mitchell was gone.

                It took him a moment to recover, to form a coherent thought. _Thank the masters of us all that wasn’t Marla_. Cecil felt...lighter, his headache lessening just the tiniest bit. But after a moment, he glanced at the digital clock on his desk. He blinked very quickly and his eyebrows shot up, and every ounce of stress and terror returned, crashing down on his head. _Only a minute to go? How did the time vanish so suddenly?! Why did I wish it gone? I—I’m not prepared!_

                He was all alone in his booth, and his heart was suddenly pounding, harder and harder and faster and faster with every second that ticked closer and closer to airtime. Cecil gripped the desk with both hands, trying to get his breathing under his control. Everything, _every_ thing _ached_ , his whole body clenched taut as a bowstring—his throat felt like it was closing up.

                _“If we find your reading subpar in any way, we’ll kill him and deliver the corpse.”_

                He couldn’t breathe.

                There was a sharp knock on the studio glass. Marla didn’t even look at him, watching the hallway clock. “Mr. Palmer, you’re live in five…four…three…” _two…one…_ , she mouthed, pointing and finally looking at him. The On Air light above him glowed red.

                “ **Time** waits for **no** man, except…for **_today_**. **Wel** come…to **_Night Vale_.** ”

                _Flawless._ His voice, delivery, everything—entirely, utterly, absolutely flawless. It was _incredible_. When he was speaking, he couldn’t even feel the pain in his mouth. He sat back into his chair and smiled hysterically as the tinkling, mysterious little theme music played. He knew he could do it. He _knew_ he could save Carlos. He pulled the note out of his breast pocket, his fingers absolutely steady. He smoothed it onto the table. It was time.

                “‘Today, listeners, is mandatory Visit Desert Bluffs Day! Leave your home or workplace and take a road trip to our friendly, neighboring town. Do not forget to take the kids to Desert Bluff’s brand new theme park, Bluffland! Who knows? You might even want to stay a while! This holiday brought to you by StrexCorp.’”

                As he finished, several things happened at once.

                Station Management banged their door wide open, hissing.

                Station Management, probably somewhat accidentally, corporeally absorbed Marla the intern.

                Cecil’s cell phone lit up on the table and began to buzz, causing it to scurry about on the desk in circles.

                And the electricity in the building flickered and went out, throwing the studio into almost complete darkness.

                Cecil grabbed his lit, buzzing phone, trying not to break its writhing, spindly legs, dove under the desk, and answered the cell.

                “Oh, _well_ done,” complimented an annoyingly chipper voice at the end of the line. “That was wonderful, Mr. Voice of Night Vale! Now all your listeners will come visit our humble little town and have the time of their lives,” he said, chuckling merrily. “Won’t that be great?”

                Cecil was shaking again. This time, out of anger and pure, icy horror—his blood felt frozen in his veins. But his voice, to his dismay, came out in a choked, pleading whisper. “Is Carlos alright? Have you unlocked the door?”

                “Oh, he’s as happy as a clam! Of course, clams can’t move. Or speak. They’re really quite helpless little critters. I’m sure he’s happy, though, where and how he is…oh, yes, and the door’s open now.” Kevin jumped at the clattering noise on the other end of the line. “What was that?”

                Silence, except for an odd hissing noise in the distant background, and an odd, clicking footstep.

                “Um…Mr. Voice of Night Vale?”

                There was a small scurrying sound now, as well, almost as though the phone was somehow skittering across the floor on tiny legs.

“Hello? Hellooooo?...Huh. Well, how peculiar, Desert Bluffs! I don’t think he’s there anymore.”

               

                Cecil burst through the door of his home, flying to the basement door. When he gripped the handle and wrenched, _it opened._ The light was on below.

“CARLOS?!” he screamed as he took the stairs five at a time. But halfway down he saw, and forced himself to stop, grabbing hold of the handrail and skidding down a few more stairs before his body fully came to a halt, still panting wildly from sprinting all the way home. “Dog Park,” he gasped at the sight, shocking himself considerably. He’d _never_ sworn so violently before.

                Then the smell hit him.

                He choked and gasped, almost blacking out from lack of air coupled with the stench. Memories came flooding back from the night when he had stepped into that black—almost indigo—portal and emerged into a radio booth that was _not_ his own.

                But this…this was worse. The basement floor—at least, the part of it that he could see— _swam_ in blood. Organs and—and bits of _flesh_  that were strewn across the floor—floated half-submerged in the crimson liquid. On the walls, spattered blood had left long drip trails before drying into a dark, scab-like crust over the wallpaper.

                Cecil _couldn’t breathe._ He felt himself hyperventilating and shut his eyes, sitting down hard on the step, forcing himself with every last shred of willpower to stay conscious.

                _Do not think,_ he commanded himself. _Breathe. Courage._ _Do_ NOT _pass out, Cecil Palmer. Carlos…Carlos might be down there…_

The thick smell of blood washed into his body with every breath.

                “Voice of Night Vale!” called a dreadful, wicked, saccharine voice from the basement’s depths. “It’s impolite to keep your audience waiting!”


	4. Debasement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Carlos' turn to wake up.

                Carlos slowly began to wake, groggy, his eyelids far too heavy to lift. He felt oddly disoriented, but secure…no, not secure. Tight. He stretched his arms and legs, or tried to, his brain working sharply to pierce through the sleepy fog in his mind.

                He tried to lift his head and found himself unable to just yet. He was sitting upright. His arms were hugging him tightly, _bound_ crosswise against his chest. _A straightjacket?_ His eyelids fluttered, and his mouth struggled to form a word.

                “C…cecil?” he moaned, his head moving slightly, his neck cracking from the stiffness of being in the wrong position for too long, and he gasped at the pain it sent bolting up to his brain. The groggy fog was clearing…and what was that _smell?_

                “Good morning, Carlos,” an entirely unfamiliar and incredibly _annoying_ voice chirruped to his left.

                _Why am I so tired? Whose voice is that?_ Carlos gritted his teeth and finally managed to pull open his eyelids.

                His first impression was red. Lots and lots of… _blood._ Dear god, the _smell._ His vision was sharpening. Blood everywhere, on the floor, the walls, dripping from the ceiling. Viscera was strewn about the floor like toys in a child’s room.

                Most of him recoiled in horror, but the science-oriented gears in his mind sputtered and then whirred, spinning into overdrive, forcing him to observe. The room was medium-sized, had no windows, and tiny specks of color showed through the splattered walls…purple wallpaper? Boxes and old pieces of furniture had been shoved to one side of the room and were dotted and splashed in blood. But Carlos recognized a small end table, and Cecil’s spidery, elegant handwriting that labeled each the boxes, and the large, wooden chest of drawers that he had helped Cecil move from his mother’s old room to the basement only a few weeks before.

                _I’m in Cecil’s basement,_ Carlos deduced, incredulous, in the span of a few seconds. _I’m tied to a chair, in a straightjacket, in Cecil’s basement, which is_ covered _in blood._ His heart was beating faster and faster, his head perfectly clear, adrenaline surging through his veins as his instinct of fight or flight kicked into red alert. _I_ need _to get out of here!_

                He wrenched his whole body against the jacket, as hard as he could, and there was a wet, muffled screech as the heavy chair his body was bound to reluctantly edged a quarter of an inch across the floor. _No good. Shit!_ He took a huge breath. “CECIL!!!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

                “Now, now, no shouting,” said the soft, horribly calm, happy voice. “Do I need to put you back to sleep? Hmm?”

                Carlos had forgotten about that voice. He slowly, slowly turned his head toward its source— _CECIL_ half of his mind screamed in horror, but the other half was already violently shaking its head, noting his bubbly, comparatively high voice, his irises—black as pits—and his terrifying, warped, malevolent grin—a grin that Cecil had never, and would never, make. This Anti-Cecil was seated in the corner of the room in front of some radio equipment, but as Carlos stared, trying to understand what the hell was going on, Anti-Cecil placed his hands on his knees, stood up, walked right up to Carlos, bending down into his face and studying him like he was an interesting bug—or dinner. Carlos strained to move away, to move at all, but his arms, chest, legs— _everything,_ except for his head, was bound painfully tightly to the thick chair.

                “Why am I—why— _who the hell are you_?!” Carlos spat out finally, his light brown eyes flashing.

                 The hand shot up like a striking snake, something hard as rock _slamming_ into Carlos’ face, as powerfully as a punch. The force of the blow knocked his face from turned left all the way to the right. He left it there, jaw dropped, in pain and utter shock.

                “Manners, Carlos!” sang the man, walking back over to Carlos’ left and grabbing hold of a chair.

                Carlos could feel the enormous bruise blooming, the blood rushing to his cheek and eye as it began to swell. That was the conclusive evidence. No possibility for error; this man was _not_ Cecil. Carlos slowly brought his head back forward and again observed. Anti-Cecil had dragged the fold-up chair from the corner and was now seated _directly_ in front of him, cradling his own face one hand, the elbow of which rested on his knee, allowing himself to stare back unblinkingly at Carlos with his head permanently cocked at almost ninety degrees. Even creepier, though, was his perversely wide, sadistic grin. His other arm also rested on his knee, but in his hand he twirled…yes, a shiny little handgun, only slightly smudged with blood. He was dressed like Cecil dressed for work, but his tie was a vibrant yellow, a color that Carlos was sure Cecil didn’t own. He kept spinning it around a finger, catching it like Carlos had often absentmindedly spun a pen before writing utensils were banned. Expertly, effortlessly—almost _bored_.

                Carlos stared at it, watching it twirl, his heart pounding frightfully against his chest, as if desperate to escape. Every single nerve in his body _screamed_ for him to get out NOW, but he was trapped, bound incredibly tight, stuck to this godforsaken chair in the hell that Cecil’s basement had become. The man in front of him seemed to be waiting, staring at him closely.

                _Manners._ “May I…ask you your name…sir?” Carlos tried, very carefully.

                “Oh, _much_ better,” the man replied jubilantly, jumping up so fast that Carlos flinched, anticipating another blow. But the man only gave a ridiculously extravagant bow. “I’m Kevin, local radio host and personality from your friendly, neighboring town.”

                Carlos’s mouth had opened angrily to reply, to growl, “ _Cecil_ is the radio host, not you!” the moment this man had called himself one, but his retort died in his throat. _Friendly neighboring town? Surely he doesn't mean…_

                “Desert Bluffs?” Carlos asked in a low voice.

                “But of course!” Kevin cried with a terrifyingly cheerful smile.

                “ _You’re_ the radio host from _Desert Bluffs_?” Carlos repeated, incredulous. No _wonder_ Cecil hated them.

                Kevin sighed. “I _still_ don’t like your tone, I’m afraid,” he said sadly. He stepped forward with the handgun raised, his expression contrite—Carlos’ heart nearly burst from his chest, and he flinched sharply—but instead of hitting him with it again, Kevin snatched up and nearly ripped out a fistful of Carlos’ hair from his head. Carlos drew in a shocked, jagged gasp, but Kevin wrenched his head and it hurt pain so badly that couldn’t even scream. The fingers were at his roots, twisted hard and tightly, wrenching his head back blindingly painfully. His breaths came short, fast, in agony.

                “Oh, Carlos, I’m sure you’re a _wonderful_ guy! It’s alright, even I forget my manners sometimes. Now, I’d like us to be great friends! You’d like that too…wouldn’t you?” he finished, his voice practically dripping honey. His iron grip on Carlos’ hair—impossibly— _tightened_ and _twisted._

                “Sure! Friends,” gasped Carlos, his voice strained and strangled, pain whiting out any other options.

                Immediately, Kevin yanked his fingers from Carlos’ hair with a squeal of glee—“How wonderful!”—before sitting down again right in front of him, studying him with a malicious smile. Carlos, his scalp stinging agonizingly urgently, dropped his gaze, trying to take deep breaths, wincing at the pain in his head and his face. _This man is entirely, dangerously unpredictable. Figure out what he wants, so you can give it to him, and get the_ hell _out of here._

                “Kevin…what do you want from me?” he asked slowly, keeping his voice steady, unprovocative, but not managing to keep out that twinge of fear.

                “Well, nothing really anymore,” said Kevin enigmatically, smiling with secrecy. “You’ve already done your job. In fact,” he said, walking right over and pressing the gun in his left hand to Carlos’ forehead, “I probably shouldn’t keep you any longer. It would be rude of me!”

                Time shifted into indescribably slow motion. Carlos’s widening eyes, _brimming_ with fear, met those soulless black pits, and he saw Kevin’s right hand reach up to the gun, and heard the cold, metallic _click_ as it cocked.

                His mouth was moving, desperation and pleas tumbling from his dry, breathless lips. “No, please, please don’t do this, please spare me, have mercy…” He was _trembling. Shit._ He drew in a shattered breath, sure it would be his last.

                Kevin made a small, delighted, interested sound. He sat on Carlos’ laps, straddling him, scooting up until he was _right_ up against him, the gun sliding to Carlos’ temple. Kevin’s right hand coming up to graze his cheek.

                “Why didn’t you tell me how _attractively_ you can beg?” murmured Kevin.

                _SECRET POLICE!!_ Carlos screamed mentally as he stared in outright horror into Kevin’s bottomless eyes, absolutely _furious_ with himselfthat he hadn’t thought of it before. **_PLEASE_** _SEND HELP!! I’M TRAPPED IN CECIL’S BASEMENT! SOMEBODY HELP ME!_

                Kevin’s hand grasped Carlos’s chin, pulling his face up to his own, as Kevin pressed his lips against Carlos’s.

                Carlos stiffened and recoiled, but couldn’t fight—the gun was _right there,_ jammed against his temple as inescapably as death—couldn’t do a thing. He felt Kevin’s disgusting, slippery tongue force its way into and around his lips and mouth. Carlos’ blood boiled and tears of anger, humiliation, and frustration pooled in his eyes. Kevin’s movements were sharp, rough, urgent, and possessive— _nothing_ like Cecil’s kisses: tender, reverent, romantic. Carlos’ eyes flicked up to the ceiling helplessly as tears finally leaked from their corners, but he didn’t sob or cry out, afraid that if he made the slightest noise, it would be his very last. _Someone, anyone who can hear me, send help. Cecil, Secret Police, angels, somebody—_

Kevin finally pulled away sat back with a discontented little whine, making a face. “You’re distracted,” he said, those absolutely _soulless_ eyes surveying him with disdain, making Carlos shiver uncontrollably. “Do you like what I’ve done with the place?” Kevin asked suddenly, gesturing around, watching Carlos' expression intently.

                Carlos very reluctantly tore his gaze away from the monster on his lap, quickly glancing around the bloody room. “Yes,” he breathed, praying with every fiber in his being that it was the right response.

                 Kevin grinned. “It took quite some planning to trap so many angels,” Kevin said a little distastefully, but with pride. “Luckily, they seemed to flock around a certain old woman’s home in your town. Very convenient, I must say,” he finished, grinning wickedly.

                _Josie’s missing angels. Holy. Shit. And...Angels’ blood!_ Carlos’ mind suddenly gasped, and despite the tears in his eyes, he almost burst into sudden, hysterical laughter. It was a mild swear Cecil used when he was really upset. His heart wrenched, suddenly _ached_ for Cecil, for his adorable, bright purple eyes and his brilliant, shy smile, for his soft hair and the way he touched him, tenderly—

                Kevin rapped on Carlos’ head with his knuckles, an annoyed expression on his face. Carlos bit his tongue, trying not to scream in frustration and anger. “Hey,” Kevin was saying. “ _They can’t hear you_ , you know!” He gestured impatiently to the ceiling, to the dried blood caking its surface. “You might as well quit trying.”

                The thoughts of Cecil were reluctantly set aside as Carlos’s scientific brain whirred into action, trying to process. Kevin surveyed him disappointedly.

                “You don’t get yet, do you? Oh, well, I _guess_ I can tell you. You’re supposed to be so smart,” Kevin said smugly, superiorly. “Your oh-so-all-knowing Secret Police? They can’t read angels’ minds!” His tone was gleeful, and he set the gun down on Carlos’ lap, wrapping both hands around the back of his neck, pressing his forehead into Carlos’. “ _That’s why angels aren’t real_.”

                Carlos shut his eyes to block out the sight of Kevin’s face. _You do this. Logic, Carlos. You have the evidence. Make a conclusion_.

 _According to Kevin, the Secret Police’s helicopters can’t read angels’ thoughts. This is possible. Also allegedly, Kevin killed angels_ —it horrified him to think it, he could hardly believe— _and painted the whole room with their gore. Also possible. But why would he go to all the trouble?_ Carlos’ eyes flickered open, met Kevin’s waiting, triumphant gaze. _It’s_ more _than just grotesque décor. They can't hear through angels’ blood—_

                — _and so they can’t hear me._

                Carlos’ heart broke, but only partially for himself.

                “Cecil,” he whispered, his voice full of pain.

                Kevin’s face, millimeters from his own, twisted into a snarl as he leaned back and smacked Carlos’ face with all his might, so violently this time that Carlos’ neck cracked from whiplash, and he gasped, his vision momentarily starry. But then the pressure of Kevin’s weight and the weight of the gun on his lap were gone, and Kevin’s voice sang out from the corner. “It’s almost time!” Carlos heard the clicks and taps of dials being switched on, a microphone being tested. He left his eyes shut and his head down, infinitely grateful for Kevin’s diverted attention. His breath suddenly came short. _He’s setting up to broadcast._ He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to look hopeless, but his thoughts surged bright with hope. He focused on his breaths, which were deep but fast, his every nerve tingling, his heart palpitating far too quickly with anticipation.

                He heard Kevin’s chair scoot back slushily through the blood, heard the wet, sloshing footsteps approach and stop directly in front of him.

                Carlos opened his eyes, his heart full of dread, as Kevin straddled him once again to sit on his lap. Kevin gave a calm, airy chuckle. “I can’t have you interrupting the show, Carlos. We can do this two ways. Here’s way number one,” he said, waving a bloody, wet washcloth with a sharp, acrid smell, “and here’s way number two.” Kevin brandished the gun. “Which would you prefer, sweet Carlos?”

                Carlos felt absolute, liquid terror drip through his veins. “Don’t kill me,” he choked out.

                Kevin laughed, and Carlos’ blood froze. “Allow me to make this a _bit_ clearer,” said Kevin apologetically, holding up the gun. “Death,” he said. He then brought the gun down and held up the cloth. “Sleep.” He then held them both up with a grin. “Which would you prefer?”

                “Sleep.” It was the barest whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Sleep,” he said again, “please, Kevin.”

                Kevin sucked in a breath and— _Thank God_ —set the gun down in his lap with an odd expression, his pit-black eyes spiked and his cheeks flushing with— _arousal,_ Carlos realized, his gratefulness morphing instantly into horror, as he, mortified, felt Kevin’s body respond to his plea. Kevin scooted _all_ the way forward in Carlos’ lap, pulling himself flush against Carlos’ arms and torso, his legs wrapping tightly around the back of the chair, crushing him. “Say that again,” Kevin murmured as he reached behind Carlos’ head and twined his fingers roughly though his hair again in almost the exact same spot as before, tilting it up towards his own.

                Carlos’ scalp screamed. “Please,” he gasped, tears starting to stream down his cheeks after only a few moments of agony. “Please, let go, _stop_ — _mercy!!_ ”

                “Mmmmm,” Kevin hummed, clearly very pleased. He _licked his lips,_  breathing heavily _._ Carlos sobbed, his own breaths jagged and rasping, the torturous pain unrelenting and unbearable— _he couldn’t take it anymore._ “The _show!_ ” Carlos rasped suddenly, his voice agonized, inspiration striking like a bolt of lightning. “The show, you’ll be late! _Please_ …”

                Kevin’s eyes widened, and his fingers loosened slightly, causing Carlos to let out a halting breath and fall silent. Kevin bit his lip. “You’re right,” he said finally, _very_ reluctantly.  “No matter how tantalizing you are, the citizens of Desert Bluffs _count_ on me…” He finally released Carlos’ hair, pulling his fingers from it, and Carlos exhaled and shuddered in relief. Kevin drew in a hiss of a breath.

                “Stop tempting me,” Kevin mumbled huskily. “We’ll have to finish this later.”

                Carlos shut his eyes and sat still as Kevin’s weight lifted off his lap, calling up an image of the real Cecil in his mind. _God, Cecil, where are you?_ Carlos thought brokenly, both his head and heart aching. Images flashed through his mind. Cecil, laughing at some stupid science joke in the lab. Cecil, gently stroking his hair as Carlos’ head lay in Cecil’s lap. Cecil, staring up at him with those astonishingly handsome purple eyes, as though he were a god to be revered. Carlos tried, desperately, to remember the very first time they had made love. But here, in this godless, smelly, bloody hellhole, with this man who was the exact opposite of the man he loved, he couldn’t bring the cherished memory to his mind. Only images of Kevin’s soulless eyes, somehow bright with lust, filled his brain. He felt tears sliding endlessly down his cheeks.

                He didn’t react when a wet cloth was pressed against his face. Its unpleasant, sharp odor washed over Carlos’ brain, along with the thick odor of blood staining the little towel, and he tried not to gag, but didn’t fight or turn his head—didn’t even open his eyes. After a few moments, he felt his breathing begin to slow and deepen, and he began to feel slightly dizzy. After a few more, his muscles relaxed, his head growing heavy as Kevin’s other hand reached up to support the back of his head, making sure the cloth stayed pressed against his face.

                 _Cecil,_ Carlos whispered in his mind.  _Help me. Please._

                “ _Good night, Night Vale_ ,” Kevin said chillingly, mockingly, as Carlos’ consciousness faded.


	5. Double (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil meets his double for the second time.

             

            Cecil forced himself to stand. His hand was still gripping the railing. He slowly took a single, steady breath, and uncurled his fingers from the bannister.

            _You have to be strong, Cecil. For Carlos._

            He walked down the steps, to the very last one, and stepped onto the bloody floor, turning and looking into the depths of the room, then stopping cold.

            There, in a chair against the middle of the wall, was Carlos. His beautiful, glorious Carlos, bound tightly with strips of thick, canvas-like cloth, his chin against his chest, clearly unconscious. But Cecil could see enough. The entire left side of Carlos’ face was—oh, masters of us all, _no_ —freshly swollen and bruised, as though he’d been hit repeatedly, _very_ hard. Cecil choked on a sob, pressing his hand to his mouth.

            There was a single other man in the room. 

            It was _himself—_ no, not himself, someone dreadfully like him, but with an entirely different voice—his double—sitting in the corner, speaking calmly to into a microphone like Cecil’s from the studio, his back to Cecil.

            “Remember, Desert Bluffs, these tourists are your friends. They want to share your experience of joy and happiness in our beautiful little town.” Kevin turned in his chair and winked at Cecil, putting a finger to his lips, revealing his other hand, which held a small, silver gun that he pointed steadily and casually at Carlos.

            Cecil stood silent, staring, his pupils growing _huge_ , swallowing the purple until his irises were merely thin rims around dark holes, like a cat’s. Blistering, unwavering _fury—_ raging, screaming fury, like a bird of prey— _ripped_ at his heart with white-hot talons, sharp as daggers, setting all of his blood on fire like an explosion, as though it were gasoline.

            He stood there at the foot of the stairs in the angels’ blood, upright, shoulders back, his eyes burning, and as Kevin glanced into his eyes, his smile and voice faltered, ever so slightly.

            “And now, dear friends, I give you all—the weather!” Kevin removed his headset and inserted a tape into a small slot, and for a moment, he was so alike to Cecil that the real Cecil shivered, a chill running down his spine. It was as though his very own reflection had stepped out of the mirror.

            But then Kevin turned to look into Cecil’s eyes, and the smile that spread across his face was unmistakably _wicked_ and _evil_. “What a _very_ nice place you have, Cecil,” said Kevin comfortably, leaning back in his chair and putting one hand behind his head, the very picture of contentment, twirling the gun around his finger in the other hand.

            Cecil was now used to the thick, stagnant smell of congealing, crusting blood, but reminded of it, he could smell its thick, heavy stench once again. He found he was shaking with rage.

            “Let. Carlos. **Go**.” Cecil warned gravely, his voice lower and more menacing than ever before.

            “Patience, Cecil,” Kevin scolded him amusedly, airily, catching the gun with a light clap in his palm. "If everything had gone exactly according to plan, you see, dearest Cecil, I _would_ be gone by now, and Carlos set free. You held up your end of the bargain most excellently! **But.** " He raised a single eyebrow, savoring the next words. "I find there’s just _one_ little thing I still want for myself, not for wonderful, sunny Desert Bluffs…from you, yes, but most especially from _lovely_ Carlos.” And as he said Carlos’ name, he glanced over at Carlos’ poor unconscious form with a monstrously meaningful look— _hungry._

            Cecil exploded. “ ** _You_** **_stay_** the **_Dog Park_** _away_ from him!” he screamed, jolting forward.

            Immediately Kevin bolted upright from his chair, standing with the gun trained unwaveringly at Carlos, cocking it with a sharp, metallic snap.

            _NO!!_ Cecil stopped dead in his tracks. Kevin wore a devious, powerful smile. Cecil watched furiously, letting out a frustrated hiss of breath as Kevin approached Carlos casually, calmly, the gun never wavering, placing his wretched hand on Carlos’ shoulder.

            EVERY bit of Cecil _screamed_ to take him _down_ , to _destroy_ him, to rip him into tiny pieces with nothing but his fingers and teeth. Cecil watched with cold, aching, terrible fury, his fists clenching so tightly that his fingernails cut into his skin, leaving tiny, bloody crescents in his palms, as Kevin _sat on Carlos’ lap,_ throwing his arm around the back of the chair and pressing the gun to Carlos’ head.

            “Now, _Cecil_ , I’m simply _embarrassed_ for you,” scolded Kevin pitifully, a small pout poking out his lower lip. “That’s no way to talk to Carlos’ newest friend!”

             Cecil nearly choked. “ _Friend?_ " His fingernails cut even deeper into his hands. " **Damn** you to the **lowest pits** of the _city beneath the bowling alley_ ," he snarled.

            Kevin made a shocked noise and reacted far faster than should have been possible, leaning back, spinning the gun around, and smacking Carlos’ chin with it, which jolted Carlos’ head to the side with an audible _crack_. Cecil gasped, sure his heart had cracked equally loudly, feeling it splinter in his chest. The pain was indescribable. This man hit Carlos. He _hurt CARLOS._

            “ _Careful,_ Cecil!” Kevin exclaimed, a hurt look in his eyes, placing one hand over his own heart with exaggerated delicacy. “You might hurt my _feelings._ You wouldn’t want that, now _would_ you?”

            Even from ten feet away, Cecil could see the mark reddening on his beloved Carlos’ lower jaw. He took a deep, slow breath. “ **No** ,” he responded, his voice darker than the night.

            “ _Wonderful,_ ” grinned Kevin. “So you’ll cooperate, won’t you?”

            As Cecil's mind cast desperately around for an idea to stall him, something, _anything_ , his eyes landed on the equipment in the corner, and inspiration struck Cecil in a way that, for some, bizarre reason, reminded him of Carlos. “Yes, of course,” he said firmly, calmly, slowly, gesturing toward the corner, “but you are a radio host. Don’t you have a **_show_** to do?”


	6. Double (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all ties are lost.

            Kevin’s face fell. Cecil struggled to keep his face straight, his eyes betraying his feeling of triumph.

            But the feeling died as Kevin sighed, biting his lip with a sidelong, _very_ meaningful glance at Carlos, and Cecil’s mind _roared_ with wrath _._ “It’s almost over, anyway,” Kevin said, his eyes sliding back to Cecil’s; they were _shining_ with sick, filthy, gleeful anticipation. “On your knees,” Kevin commanded dismissively, flicking the gun down in Cecil’s direction.

            Cecil slowly sank to his knees, his eyes never leaving Kevin’s.

            “Now sit still, and don’t fidget,” Kevin said sternly, motherly.

            Cecil’s gaze flickered to Carlos.

            “Uh-uh, that’s a no-no,” sang Kevin warningly, shaking his index finger at Cecil. “Don’t even think about it.”

            Cecil, ignoring with some difficulty the urge to rush forward, rip Kevin’s finger off and cram it down his throat, lifted his wrist and glanced pointedly at the worn little wristwatch upon it.

            Kevin laughed, positively _delightedly,_ and Cecil stared at him murderously. “You are aware that that watch _doesn’t work_ , right, Mr. Voice of Night Vale?” His tone was full of glee, mocking Cecil's pain.

            Cecil clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth in fury.

            “You’re simply _too_ much,” Kevin chuckled as he walked over to his chair and sat down in front of the microphone, slipping the headset snugly over his ears and tapping his foot on the wet ground to the final verse of the song, causing tiny ripples to shiver across the basement floor.

            Cecil let out a long breath through his teeth and glanced at Carlos, his heart aching at just the sight. His poor, unconscious, beautiful, imperfect Carlos, breathtakingly handsome even with his head hanging down and his swollen, bruised, battered face. He looked so vulnerable, so _helpless_ , worried creases lining his forehead even in sleep, and Cecil swore, his heart throbbing with love and pain, that he would save him, no matter the cost.

            He glanced back toward Kevin. He was gesturing enthusiastically as he spoke cheerfully, his attention entirely focused on his broadcast. Cecil edged forward an inch. Kevin did not respond, chirping affectionately about ponies or something.

            Cecil slowly rose off the ground, blood dripping thickly from his fingertips. Kevin spoke on, calmly, happily, evidently oblivious, having forgotten where he was, absorbed completely with love of his town.

            “So, with sweet sorrow, my dear friends, I must depart. But I leave you all with a happy promise. Until next time, Desert Bluffs. Until next time.” He lifted up the headset.

            Cecil’s fingers curled into the collar of Kevin’s tie and suddenly twisted it tight enough to cut into his own hands, cutting off all Kevin’s air in a split second.

            Kevin gagged, his hand shooting out for the gun, but Cecil was already yanking him over, the chair tipping over backwards and slamming onto the bloody ground. Cecil was on top of him, shoving the chair away, his elbows locked straight as iron bars, twisting the tie around Kevin’s throat with all his might.

            Kevin’s eyes bugged out from his head as blood soaked into his hair, his mouth gaping airlessly. His fingernails dug into Cecil, raking his arms and clawing out strips of skin, leaving raw, bloody, stinging trails, but Cecil screamed through the pain and only clenched the yellow fabric even tighter, causing Kevin’s hands to wrench and push desperately at his, trying futilely to yank them off.

            “ _T_ _his is for what you did to_ _Carlos_ ,” Cecil shouted furiously at Kevin, watching his face turn white, pressing down as well as twisting as hard as he could.

            Kevin’s hand suddenly shot down between Cecil’s spread legs, _pinching_ Cecil with all his fingers at once, _wickedly,_ his fingernails piercing like talons.

            Cecil shrieked in shock, pain, and fury as his body bucked involuntarily at the white-hot pain; _his elbows unlocked_. Kevin jammed his forearms between Cecil’s and _wrenched_ his arms apart, breaking Cecil’s grip and causing Cecil to fall forward on top of him, his hands splashing onto the ground. Kevin gulped in a huge breath of air as Cecil pushed himself up and fought to catch hold of Kevin’s throat itself, his eyes blazing, but Kevin’s hands shot up and grabbed _Cecil’s_ tie with both hands, pulling his own, entire torso off the ground, yanking Cecil’s face into him and toward the ground with his weight. As he pulled, he twisted the tie in his hand, making it squeeze unbearably tightly around Cecil’s throat. Cecil sputtered and choked in shock. “How do _you_ like it?!” Kevin rasped into his ear, through heavy gasps.

            Cecil’s hands shot out from under them both, causing them to slam against the floor, the back of Kevin’s head banging onto the ground, his mouth curving into a shocked, furious O as blood licked the edges of his ears. Cecil struggled to get to his feet, but Kevin still gripped his tie with both hands. So Cecil _punched_ him, straight in the eye. Kevin squealed in pain as he finally let go of the tie with one hand and _punched Cecil right back,_ albeit slightly less forcefully. Cecil took immediate advantage of Kevin having let go. He grabbed Kevin’s remaining hand with both of his own and ripped it off his tie. As soon as he was free, he scrambled backward, to his feet, his fingers working furiously to undo the mangled and bloody tie around his neck as he breathed heavily. Kevin grimaced and propped himself up against the wall to his right, his fingers mirroring Cecil’s, blurring as they undid and yanked the yellow strip from around his neck.

            “You've met your match,” gasped Kevin breathlessly and amusedly as he rose unsteadily to his feet from the bloody ground, tossing his tie.

            Cecil let his own tie slip from his neck. He was only a foot or two away from the desk. He slowly moved backwards, keeping his eyes entirely on Kevin, who grinned like a skeleton.

            “It’s time,” he said, lunging forward faster than Cecil thought humanly possible.

            Cecil dove towards the desk as soon as his mind registered Kevin’s move, his hand shooting out, fingers flaring desperately to grab the gun.

            Kevin, with his incredible, inhuman speed, _almost_ made it first. But Cecil had gotten three feet of a head start. He crashed into the desk the same time as Kevin, but his fingers found the gun as Kevin's scrabbled beneath it. He snatched it, his fingers closing around it. The instant he had it in his grasp, he sprung away from the table, pushing off both it and Kevin himself, staggering for balance, then standing up straight and sure, leveling the gun directly at Kevin’s heart.

            “No!” Kevin whispered, slipping off the desk, grimacing in pain as he landed back on the floor with an agonized gasp, bent strangely, his hands pressed against his side. “You _wouldn’t_. Don't. Please…”

            Cecil’s eyes burned, his pupils nearly swallowing his irises whole, as his index finger wrapped around the trigger.

            “POLICE! FREEZE!” a booming voice roared behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol this. Someone explain. Send help. Thanks.


	7. Duality (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Intern Mitchell. It's worth it, I promise.

                The sun not yet risen when he pulled into the parking space at the radio station. Dawn was only just hinting at the sky with touches of yellow and pink. Intern Mitchell stifled a yawn as he climbed out of his small, efficient car and locked it. As he walked, he threaded his key ring through the ring of his intern’s lanyard, trying not to scuff up his laminated name tag too badly in the process.

                When he finally got the keys on the loop, he looked up and was pretty startled to see a silhouette exiting the building, outlined by the harsh yellow of the building’s security lights. As soon as he caught sight of Mitchell approaching, the man—Cecil Palmer, Mitchell recognized immediately—froze in his tracks. Mitchell felt his eyebrows raise. _What is he doing here so early, acting all suspicious? The broadcast doesn't start for hours._  “Good morning, Mr. Palmer,” he called steadily, waving. After a short pause, Cecil waved energetically, motioning him forward. As he approached, Mitchell saw his face was spit with a very wide grin. Almost…creepily wide.

                “Do you work here?” Cecil whispered quickly.

                Mitchell’s face fell. _Of course I can’t expect Cecil Palmer to remember me,_ he thought. _We only met with a quick handshake a couple of days ago during my first-day tour. He meets new interns, what, every week?_ “Yes, sir. I’m just an intern,” he said, managing to keep most of the disappointment out of his voice.

                “ _Well_ , my young friend,” Cecil said in a hushed voice, secretively, glancing around. “I’m planning a surprise at the station today. For all of Night Vale!” he added, his grin wide, teeth flashing in the dark. “So I need you to do me a _big_ favor.”

                Mitchell was now definitely weirded out. _This guy is one serious actor. His voice sounds_ way _different on the radio…and he sure is creepier in person than I thought he would be._ Mitchell nodded anyway. It was Cecil Palmer, the town radio host—probably the single most famous person in town. How could he say no? “Okay,” he replied smoothly, trying to sound nonchalant, like he did favors for famous people all the time.

                “ _Wonderful_ ,” whispered Cecil a little too enthusiastically for Mitchell’s taste. “It’s very simple, young man. Don’t tell _anybody_ you saw me this morning. Don’t even mention it to _me._ In fact, _especially_ do NOT mention it to me. Promise? Oh! Here,” Cecil said suddenly, as if inspiration had struck, drawing something from his pocket with his long fingers, suddenly grabbing Mitchell’s wrist, causing him to jump a little bit—his grip was remarkably strong—and pressing it into Mitchell's hand. “You can have this, as a token of my…appreciation.”

                Mitchell had stared in confusion through the dim light. A small, silver coin sat on his palm, winking weakly at him, but its face was smooth and blank except for a small ridge that ran around its edge. Mitchell had never seen anything like it.

                Cecil giggled when he looked up. “Not a _word_ to anyone. You’re in on the secret. Do you _promise_?” Cecil whispered once more.

                “Yeah, sure, promise,” Mitchell had responded, now definitely more than just a little creeped out. “Um, thanks.”

                “ _Great_ ,” Cecil praised unnervingly cheerfully as he quicly walked over to his car, and got in. He started it and drove away with a little wave and a grin.

                Mitchell raised his hand unenthusiastically, then placed his hands in his jacket pockets as he watched the little car disappear down the road, frowning slightly. _That_ was the famous Mr. Palmer? His first impression was, frankly, just disappointing. He sounded so sincere and heartfelt on the radio, like such a swell guy, but it was fairly obvious from their encounter that that was all just an act. Mitchell turned and walked up to the door, still frowning. He’d just expected… _better._

 

                Cecil came back to the station late that morning, only seven minutes before the scheduled broadcast. Mitchell, in the kitchen at the time, didn’t see him walk in, but he heard the excited whispers of the other interns—especially Marla, of course, who ran in immediately after catching a glimpse of him walking down the hallway. Apparently, Cecil had looked _very_ troubled and worried, possibly even sick. “He obviously had a huge fight with Carlos, and it was probably so bad that Carlos just dumped him right before the show,” Marla whispered deliciously to Shara, both of them leaning against the wall as Mitchell rolled his eyes and filled a small cup with water.

                He actually _was_ pretty surprised about one thing: the idea that Cecil apparently looked heartbroken. That sort of grief wasn’t an emotion he could picture gracing Cecil’s face. He was way too…maniacally cheerful. _His surprise must have screwed up royally_ , Mitchell thought, _if he really looks_ that _sad._ He drank from his cup. _Or maybe it’s just gossip._

                “Who’s gonna _console_ Cecil?” Shara whispered, her eyelashes fluttering. “See if he needs anything, or wants to talk?”

                “I am, right now,” said Marla firmly. Her eyes caught Mitchell like a hawk’s, and he winced a little. “Hey. You. Be ready to get stuff for Cecil if I tell you to.”

                “O…kay?” said Mitchell unenthusiastically, definitely not ecstatic at the idea of being alone with Cecil again. _Why don’t you just get it yourself?_ He couldn’t help but think.

                Marla glared at him—“New interns always fetch, dork”—and strode from the room.

                “Yeah,” sighed Shara a little sadly. “I had to get _everything_ when I was new.”

                “Right. And how long has Marla been here?” Mitchell asked, eyeing the doorway with distaste.

                “Almost 5 _weeks_ ,” whispered Shara, her eyes wide.

                Mitchell raised an eyebrow. “That _long?_ ”

                “I _know._ They say she beat the record by _eight days!_ ” Shara uttered, reminding him of a doe with her wide, circular eyes.

                “Well, _I_ plan to last even longer than Marla,” Mitchell said casually, finishing his small cup of water.

                “Hey! New guy!” Marla’s voice yelled down the hall. Mitchell groaned inwardly. “Bring Cecil a cup of coffee!”

                Mitchell made a face as he hopped off the table and walked across the room to the coffeemaker, tossing his own cup in the trash and filling up a new, small, paper cup lined with plastic with steaming hot coffee fresh from the machine.

                Shara bolted across the room to help. “He likes it with a tiny splash of milk,” she said, which he obediently added, “and two sugars.” Her eyes filled with terror. “Wait—maybe it’s three sugars? No, it’s—it’s—oh _no,_ ” she said overdramatically.

                Mitchell rolled his eyes again— _fangirls—_ ripped open and added a single packet of sugar to the drink, grabbed a few extra packets, and walked out into the hall, stepping around the odd puddle from Station Management, carefully carrying the steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

                But when he reached the door, his resolve faltered a little. He reached up with the hand holding the sugars and knocked quietly with a knuckle. There was no answer, but as he glanced at Marla for advice, she glared at him, so he opened the door and stepped inside anyway, reaching to set the cup on the table, his eyes downcast.

                “Just the way you like it, they told me,” he said, feeling a touch of insecurity slip into his voice. “But I brought extra sugar, uh, just in case,” he mumbled, dropping the packets on the table.

                There was no response, so finally, unwillingly, he glanced at Cecil. His expression froze; the sight of the man nearly took his breath away.

                Cecil sat hunched over in his chair, holding his head in his hands, his posture entirely shut and tight and fragile-looking, as though merely _sitting_ there was torture. But Cecil’s _face_ —it was _full_ of pain, absolutely broken with grief. He looked ten years older than mere hours before. His forehead was creased and wrinkled with sorrow, his thin eyebrows withdrawn tightly into the middle, his lips pale and tight, and his eyes hopelessly downcast. It was the saddest, most heartbroken expression Mitchell had ever seen, and he was absolutely stunned—could hardly believe, if not for the evidence right in front of his eyes—that a face that only hours ago had been grinning like a jack-o-lantern was now so terribly wretched in and stricken with grief. But when Cecil finally turned his eyes up to his, giving Mitchell a full view of his eyes, Mitchell’s shock doubled. Cecil’s irises were a bright, stunning purple underneath the surface of those shimmering eyes. _How did I not notice that before? They looked black this morning. Must've been the light._

                “Are…are you feeling alright, Cecil? Ah, I mean, Mr. Palmer, sir,” Mitchell stammered haltingly, hastily correcting himself. “I heard…” God, he was terrible at this. He was just so _surprised._ “I mean, you look a little…?”

                Cecil gave him such a weary, tormented, heartbroken smile, that Mitchell’s voice trailed off in astonishment. _What happened to that giggling, manic, creepily cheerful guy met a few hours ago?_

                “I feel… _incredible_ , Mitchell,” Cecil said, his voice _low_ and _rich_ and _brimming_ with suffering. Cecil paused for a split second, his eyes glazing over as if he was staring far off into the distance, and for one terrifying, awkward moment, Mitchell was _sure_ he was about to cry. But then Cecil was back, adamantly focusing those stunning, shining purple eyes back on his own. “Thank you…and thanks for the coffee.”

                That _voice_. It was so full, so rich, so entirely, _impossibly_ changed. The man in front of him seemed absolutely broken, but the incredible fullness of his tone, the raw emotion piercing through his eyes, was all somehow far, far more real and—and just _more,_ like Mitchell had _always_ imagined him, the Voice of Night Vale—than he had been, cheerful and creepy and weird, in the parking lot. Mitchell felt a stricken, sympathetic pang of pain just _looking_ at the poor man, without even knowing what had happened to him.

                He was staring, awkwardly, but Cecil only looked back desolately with raw, honest, pure eyes. He tried desperately to reconcile the two Cecils he knew, but the sight of this anguished honesty in comparison to the manic, freakish secrecy he’d shown before made Mitchell _incredibly_ uneasy. He couldn’t stay in this booth, not for another second.

                “You’re welcome, sir,” he muttered finally, edging out of the booth and pulling the door closed, walking away from the booth as quickly as he could, back toward the kitchen.


	8. Duality (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Intern Mitchell comes out of the closet. (Sorry.)

                Marla was leaning against the wall halfway down the hall. As soon as she caught sight of him, she sniffed, striding toward him very quickly, her heels clicking on the floor. Mitchell tried to walk past her. No such luck. “What did he say?” she pestered.

                Mitchell gave her a dirty look. “He just said, ‘I feel incredible, Mitchell, thanks for the coffee.’” Mitchell froze, the full realization of it jolting through him.

                “ _What?_ ” she demanded haughtily, eyeing him with disdain. When he didn’t respond, lost in thought, she huffed and muttered “useless” under her breath as she spun on her heels and strode away down the hall, returning to the kitchen.

 _He called me_ directly _by name. This morning he doesn’t have the faintest idea who I am, and now we’re on a first-name basis?_ He turned around to look back at the booth, thinking _It could have been my ID tag, but I didn’t see him look at it_ —

                —just in time to see Cecil grab the full, steaming cup of coffee on his desk and down it, throwing his head back desperately, his eyes shut, in one gulp. When he set the cup down, it still steamed faintly.

                Mitchell’s jaw literally dropped. _You definitely look like an idiot._ He shut it and tried to tear his eyes away, tried to leave, but he couldn’t stop _staring._

                Cecil regarded the now-empty cup with an odd expression— _gratitude?—_ before his gaze finally flickered upward—

                —and met Mitchell’s stunned stare.

                And Mitchell watched, in growing horror, as, inexplicably, Cecil’s eyes filled with terror as they locked onto his own.

 _What the hell is_ wrong _with this guy?!_ He stared at Cecil in complete and utter shock and confusion for one moment more, trying furiously to make sense of it all, then gave his head a startled little shake and started forward, with a fierce determination. He was going to _demand_ that Cecil tell him what was going on, force him to say why he’d just burned himself—happily!—on boiling hot coffee, and make him explain the total shift in voice and character singe this morning. He was going to get to the bottom of it all, so help him!

                But as he strode forward—Cecil’s _face._ Those shockingly-colored eyes grew desperate and frightened as he approached—the eyes of a prisoner watching his executioner advance with the axe in his hand. As Mitchell closed the short distance between himself and the booth, with Cecil’s enormous eyes locked pleadingly onto his own, he couldn’t help but slow down—Cecil was withdrawing, curling up, his own arm wrapping around himself tightly as if he were holding himself together, as if Mitchell’s very proximity might break him into pieces, and his other hand pressing against his mouth, his expression tortured.

                Mitchell felt his heart pounding in his chest, filling with dread as he slowly reached out and touched the door handle. His eyes never left Cecil’s.

                And Mitchell saw the hope leave them. He watched the single, horrifying tear slip from corner of one of the radio host’s eyes.

                He let go. Took one step back. Another. Another. And he continued backing up, slowly, slowly, then a little bit more quickly and then a bit faster still, because with every step he took the tiniest bit of light and hope and gratefulness and relief brighten those wretched, lost, broken eyes. Now, almost all the way down the hall, Mitchell watched as Cecil shivered silently behind the glass, seated at his booth, bowing his head slightly and closing his eyes.

                Mitchell’s hand fumbled for a doorknob, any doorknob, and found one. He quickly let himself in and closed the door with his back against it, his head turning up to the ceiling as he let out a long, slow, freaked-out breath.

                The room was tiny and dim, and full of wires and switches—the utility closet. The water heater was in one corner, randomly-colored pipes climbed up the walls at odd angels and disappeared into the ceiling, and the electrical switchboard cupboard sat in the corner to his right. He probably wasn’t supposed to be in here. Right now, he didn’t give a shit.

                He slid down onto the floor, his back against the door, trying to take normal breaths. Cecil’s face, his wide, horrified, purple eyes, plagued Mitchell’s thoughts.

                Mitchell furiously pulled out the weird coin thing from his pocket, holding it between his thumb and index finger, flipping it back and forth, really looking it over for the first time, feeling like it _had_ to be some sort of clue. There was engraving on one side, opposite the rim side—letters and numbers that made no sense whatsoever, a plus sign in the middle, and the word JAPAN underneath it.

                Mitchell studied it for a few seconds, his confusion only growing, before letting out a frustrated breath. He didn’t get it. If anything, the stupid coin thing only made it all weirder. He glanced up at the switchboard to distract himself.

                The box, which was supposed to be shut, was cracked open. There was a little glow coming from inside the darkness of the mess of wires. Did wires usually glow? Probably, for all he knew. But maybe he should shut it. Who would have left it cracked open that way?

                Mitchell stood.

_Cecil was here, early this morning. What if…?_

                “Angels’ fucking blood,” cursed Mitchell at Cecil's weirdness, knowing curiosity killed the cat, but unable to help himself. Now he _had_ to know. He swung open the cupboard and tentatively pulled the masses of wires aside.

                It was a digital clock, buried in the middle of all of it, weirdly plastered with smiley-face stickers. But instead of telling the time, it read 00:12, and was counting down.

                Mitchell stared at it uncomprehendingly for a few seconds, watching the number shrink.

                9. 8. 7.

                Mitchell shook his hands free frantically, pulling his fingers out from the wires, trying desperately not to unplug anything. As soon as he was free he fell backward, _scrambling_ into the corner, curling into a ball and putting his arms over his head, knowing he was dead, counting _3…2…1…_

                After a moment, there was an anticlimactic sizzling sound. Mitchell didn’t move. He stayed frozen as the lights went out in the room, pitching him into complete darkness. Not even the glow of the timer remained.

                Mitchell sat there, waiting for the explosion, waiting for his death, _cursing_ himself to no end for becoming an intern. _Everyone_ had told him it wasn’t worth the pay, wasn’t worth the honor, but _nooo,_ he just had to be an arrogant little bastard, had to show them all, didn’t he? And now he was about to die in a damned _closet._

                The explosion didn’t come. However, there was a muted howling outside the door, and Mitchell heard Shara scream outside.

                He finally mustered the courage to move, fumbling for the doorknob, feeling along the wall, crawling forward in the darkness until his fingers finally found it.

                He stood up and pulled the door open. It was very dark out here, too, and the howling noise was much louder, accompanied by hissing. A squealing Shara bolted past, shrieking even louder when she caught sight of Mitchell’s figure in the doorway, not recognizing him in the gloomy light, tearing down the hall toward the exit.

 _That’s the only source of light_ , Mitchell realized: the building’s glass entrance door itself, all the way at the end of the hall. _The entire building’s electricity is ou_ —

                —someone else _shot_ past him. Mitchell popped his head out of the doorway immediately, staring, knowing, without a doubt, that silhouette, framed against the sunlight.

 _What the fuck, Cecil?_ thought Mitchell tiredly as Cecil pushed the door open and bolted outside.

                Mitchell closed the utility closet door behind him, squinting into the dark, his eyes getting used to it now, thinking he should probably tell someone about the bomb thing…whatever it was. But he glanced down the hall, he saw Station Management streaming out of their room towards him, howling wildly and knocking pictures off the walls.

                “He went that way,” he said, pointing toward the door.

                Management shrieked, humming, and clicked past him, tearing a hunk out of the wall right next to Mitchell’s face and tossing it at his feet. It evaporated. “You’re welcome,” he replied wearily.

                Something climbed onto his shoe.

                Mitchell looked down apathetically. It was a cell phone. With legs. Spidery, spiny little legs. It looked… _forlorn._

                “I quit,” said Mitchell dazedly, to no one in particular. Now that Station Management was gone, halls were silent; everyone else had fled the building when management escaped.

                The spider-cell hopped off his leg and scurried back down the hall, toward the radio booth, stopping suddenly and turning to look at him. Mitchell blinked. “You can’t be serious.”

                It turned away from him, scuttled a few more feet, and then turned back.

                “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Mitchell, following it.

                It scurried all the way to the radio booth, which was far enough away from the door to be pitch black. The phone’s belly lit up, making its location obvious as it scuttled through the doorway, disappearing from sight.

                Mitchell sighed and walked inside himself, just in time to watch the phone climb up the wall, onto the table, and stop in the middle of the desk, on top of Cecil’s abandoned broadcasts.

                Mitchell rolled his eyes and sat down in the chair— _Cecil Palmer’s chair_ —picking up the phone (trying to avoid its spiny little legs) and using it as light to read the top page.

_Voice of Night Vale—_

_We have Carlos…_

                Mitchell read the entire thing, his eyes widening in realization, before snatching it up and bolting out of the station himself, the phone and the note clutched tightly in his hand.


	9. Imposter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wrong kind of rescue.

        Cecil felt relief sweep and crash through his body like a wave. _Finally,_ he thought, grateful and weak at the knees.

        He turned around halfway and gave the Secret Police standing at the door a weary half-smile, opening his mouth to thank them. “ _I said **FREEZE**! Don’t move!”_ the large male officer at the bottom of the stairs roared, leveling his gun directly at Cecil’s chest.

        Cecil froze. Confusion, shock, and sudden fear choked him, leaving him voiceless.

        “DROP THE GUN NOW!”

        Cecil’s breath hitched as he slowly bent down and set the gun on the ground into the blood. He stood, trying again, this time finally managing to speak. His voice was terrified, quavering, but unmistakable. “Please, I wasn’t—”

         “Very good. Now step away from the gun and the hostages, double,” the Policeman said nodding his head away from the two others.

        Cecil’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. He didn’t move, flabbergasted. “But I’m _Cecil_ ,” he said loudly, shocked, furious tears springing to his eyes.

         “I SAID _STEP AWAY_ OR I SHOOT!”

        Cecil jumped involuntarily in fright and started walking to the side very carefully, unbelieving, his impossibly wide eyes locked on the barrel of the Policeman’s gun. He could hear Kevin gasping in the corner, as if in great pain, and he bit his lip, because now he was being _forced_ to move farther and farther from _Carlos_ , when the only thing he wanted to do was run to him and unbind him and get him out of this horrible hell, he’d only just held the gun on Kevin to keep him the hell _away,_ and this was all wrong, so terribly, horribly wrong.

        He started to speak, desperately, as he moved cautiously to the side. “Please, _please_ listen. I’m _not_ him—”

         “Don't play games. Get on the ground. I said, _get on the ground._ ”

        The Policeman was walking in, holding the gun directly at him, against _him, Cecil!_

        Cecil couldn’t move, shaking in terror as the Policeman quickly and menacingly walked over, to him, behind him, so he couldn’t see. _Why don't they recognize me?!_ Once behind him, the Policeman viciously kicked out the back of his knees so that he fell on them to the ground and pushed him down face-first into the blood as Cecil cried out, partly in pain, but mostly in shock. Several more Policemen and -women poured in from the staircase. Stunned, Cecil finally started to struggle, but the Policeman sank his knee into the small of Cecil’s back as he wrenched Cecil’s right hand behind him, cuffing it. Cecil lifted his head, tears flowing, pleading with a piercing cry, “Please, ow, _angels’ blood!_ Stop, you don’t understand—you’re making a terrible mistake! It's me, Cecil! He's the criminal, not I! Don't you recognize my voice?!" But when the only responses to his pleas were dark, distrustful stares from the Policemen all around him, Cecil's heart filled with despair. "Carlos! _Someone, HELP ME!”_

On the floor, blood dripping from his face, Cecil managed to turn his head to stare at his beloved scientist. Carlos was still completely out, and a Policewoman was untying his bonds with deft fingers. Cecil felt a touch of relief. But then a Policeman walked in front of him, over to his double, who was curled up in the corner and absolutely soaking in blood from their scuffle. “Are you alright, sir?” he asked with concern. Cecil's blood burned. Kevin’s breathing was theatrically labored as he answered in a pitiful whisper. “Please, take him away and lock him up. He’s _insane_. He _beat_ me and _dear_ Carlos—”

         “ _Liar! IMPOSTER!”_ Cecil shrieked, writhing on the ground. Kevin _cringed,_ shrinking away from Cecil as though he were some dangerous, rabid animal— _him,_ the crazy one, the dangerous one! The Policeman stepped in front of Kevin, drawing his weapon and leveling it towards Cecil, calling over his shoulder to Kevin infuriatingly, “Don’t worry, Mr. Palmer. He’s not going to hurt you or anyone else anymore.”

         “ ** _I’m_** _Mr. Palmer! He’s **lying**! LET **GO!** ”_

         “Damn, I need some help here,” murmured the officer almost inaudibly, crushing Cecil’s back with his knee as Cecil writhed and struggled beneath him, screaming his identity, desperate to make them understand, to get to Carlos, Carlos would know, would understand—!

        Several other police officers came sloshing through the blood and lifted Cecil forcibly off the ground, escorting—practically carrying—him with grips tight enough to bruise, across the basement, toward the stairs.

         “NO!” Cecil shrieked, panicked and wild, kicking at them and wrenching his body left and right. “Carlos, help me! _Wake up!_ _Someone, please help!_ **YOU HAVE THE WRONG MAN!”**

        Carlos did not so much as stir, but Cecil noted through his frantic struggling that the Policemen still in the basement were untying him, thank god. The Policemen holding him, though, were deaf to his screams. If anything, his pitiful cries made them clench him tighter, grip harder, trap him, hurt him, and as he twisted his head back he saw the flash of Kevin’s terrible grin.

         “NO!” Cecil screamed behind him as the pulled him up the stairs, kicking and screaming the whole way. They emerged from the basement, Cecil pleading frantically, maniacally, struggling furiously, tears streaming down his face—

         “Stop, no, please, you have to let me go, I swear I’m not Kevin, HE’S Kevin, I’m Cecil, I’m _CECIL_ damn you, _please listen to me—!_ ”

        He was kicking and struggling so hard that even the three police officers were having trouble keeping their grips on him. The blood all over him helped, making him slick and hard to hold onto. He was high off adrenaline, his heart hammering in his chest, every nerve hyper-alert, his blood on fire—

         “—no, _PLEASE,_ I’m Cecil, **I swear to you!** JUST READ MY MIND!”

        A single police officer ran forward from the living room, holding a Taser, and the police officers straining to hold onto Cecil now planted their feet and shoved him headfirst to the hallway carpet so hard that the friction burned the side of his face. With his head jammed sideways against the floor, he couldn’t see. But as soon as he was on the ground, the blood on his cheek staining his carpet, Cecil froze and lay entirely still, holding his breath, his eyes closed, frozen in anticipation of the excruciating shocks.

        Nothing happened. When the man standing above of him spoke, Cecil flinched.

         “This is your _last_ warning, double. Continue to refuse to cooperate, and things will be even worse for you than they already are. Not another _word_ comes out of your mouth except ‘Yes, sir,’ or this gets ugly. Do you understand?”

        Cecil felt hot tears pool into his eyes. He fought them back. “Yes, sir,” Cecil whispered in terror into the carpet fibers.

         “What was that?”

         “Yes, sir,” Cecil choked desolately, tears flowing from his eyes, soaking the carpet, mingling with the blood.

        The Secret Police officer lowered the taser. “Look at that. It knows how to play nice.”

        The Policemen sitting on Cecil’s shoulders and legs were very reluctant to let him up, but they did, gripping him harder than Cecil had ever been held, their gloved fingers breaking the blood vessels under his skin. Cecil didn’t say a word, didn’t cry out. As they carried him through the living room, Cecil shuddered, hard, and the Policemen gripped him even harder, warningly, but he only shook with silent sobs at everything. _Everything_ was wrong. The Police who should have been his salvation. Carlos, so helpless, unconscious, injured, beaten. Kevin—that demonic, evil creature—free.

        The Policemen carried him outside.

 

        There were many more Policemen out here, swarming his yard, trampling his grass with their shiny boots. The sudden bright light of the sun, in comparison to the gloom of the basement of only moments before, made him shut his eyes, and he felt tears streak down his face.

        They hustled him quickly to the curb, but not before an indignant, young male voice cried out, “It serves you right, you monster!”

        Cecil cracked opened his broken eyes and flicked them painfully upward as the policemen struggled to drag him along—and caught a glimpse of the young man himself, of his shockingly loathsome expression.

        _Mitchell._ Cecil mouthed his name, and saw those bright eyes widen in horror, lighting up suddenly with mistrust and confusion. Cecil couldn’t hold his gaze; the Policemen carried him past quickly, reaching the curb in seconds. One yanked the door to the Secret Policecar, and all three of them shoved Cecil inside, ducking his head forcibly to prevent it from slamming into the roof. They immediately withdrew as fast as they could and slammed the door, and Cecil was suddenly alone, hands cuffed uncomfortably behind his back, bruised, broken, and imprisioned. He drew his legs up onto the hard, black, plastic seat and threaded his long arms through them, bringing them to the front, so that he could bury his face into them and sob.

        Mitchell’s voice was arguing, right outside the car. Cecil winced and tried not to hear, sure it would be more poisonous, misdirected hate, but it was no use. Wait...

         “—please, I let me _check_! I have _very_ good reason to believe tha—”

         “Son, this _thing_ isn’t even _human._ It doesn't have thoughts. You are badly mistaken. It's a double; we _know_ it looks and sounds like Cecil, but it’s not. It was about to _kill_ the real Cecil as soon as we burst in. We caught it just in time.”

         “But he knows my name! I _know_ him—”

         “This is police business, kid. Go back home.” They were opening the passenger and driver doors, ignoring Mitchell’s pleas, giving Cecil a clearer sound.

         “Please! At least let me ask him a _question!_ Just one question!” And Cecil heard Mitchell run right up to the door, yanking repeatedly on the handle that wouldn't give.

        Cecil, still sobbing, didn’t move from his fetal position on the bench, but he could feel his heart flutter with the most fleeting touch of hope, as the Policemen got into the car. The man in the passenger side didn’t close his door, continuing to address Mitchell, his irritation palpable in his voice.

         “There’s no point, kid! This _thing_ is dangerous. We’re not letting you in there. Back away from the car, or I’ll have to arrest you for obstructing justice. You’re wasting our time.”

        Finally, Cecil looked up, out the window, right at Mitchell above him. His face was full of frustration, his youthful face lined with worry and confusion. But as soon as he caught eyes with Cecil, all of that dropped away. Their eyes locked, and the shock and pity that swam in his eyes wrenched at Cecil’s heart.

        The Policemen started the car.

         “No! Please!!” Mitchell screamed, tugging at Cecil’s door. “I— _wait!_ ” They were moving, pulling away from the curb. “Arrest me, too! I helped him!! _He bribed me to help!_ ”

        The car jolted to a halt as Mitchell stumbled forward, and one policeman put two fingers to his temple. “MR2, do you copy? Confirm, McClark just confessed to aiding and abetting.”

He spoke aloud, though he didn't need to, as if he could hardly believe it himself. But Cecil watched as his eyebrows shot up, then settled, as he received a telepathic response. He then jumped out of the car and immediately forced Mitchell against it, cuffing him as he stayed silent, unresisting. Cecil scrambled aside hurriedly as the Policeman unlocked and wrenched open the door one last time and shoved Mitchell in next to him, then walked back to the front of the car and started it up, one last time.

        Cecil could only stare, in dread and horror and distrust, into those innocent blue eyes. “You…?” _How could he?_ “You _helped_ him?” Cecil’s voice cracked.

         “No, no, I swear, it’s not what you think!” said Mitchell quickly, panicked, shaking his head violently. “I—just hang on for a second, please, sir. I’ll explain everything, I swear.” Cecil watched in confusion as he pulled his knees into his chest and brought his arms underneath his body, threading himself through the handcuffs’ loop, just as Cecil had done. He then quickly dug into his pocket and pulled out the weird coin as the car started up and pulled away from the curb, pressing it desperately into Cecil’s hands. “This is all he ‘bribed’ me with, I—I had no idea what he was planning, Mr. Palmer, I swear to the Glow Cloud. I just met him this morning in the parking lot, I thought he was you—sorry, I should have known, he was so creepy, you’re nothing like him at all, but—I had no idea that he was planning to hurt you or anyone else and he told me it was just a surprise for Night Vale, and when I found the note I couldn’t believe it because it made so much sense and I just didn’t know what the fuck to do—!”

         “Whoa, whoa, easy there.” Cecil’s mind whirled with all the information. But as he stared into Mitchell’s earnest, weary, hopeful face, and thought about it all, Cecil made up his mind. He knew now, all too well, what it felt like not to be believed. “I believe you.”

        Mitchell’s eyes filled with relief as he nodded. He sat back and murmured gratefully, “Thank you. I swear, it’s the truth.” But suddenly, they clouded with mistrust. He looked back at Cecil warily, covering his ID with one hand. “I’m really sorry to do this, sir. But...I could be mistaken. What's my name?”

        Cecil looked deeply into his eyes, with only the slightest twinge of hurt making him wince, and replied very softly, “Mitchell. Mitchell McClark.”

        Mitchell gave him a tiny nod, and his expression softened, just a little, but held his gaze, still wary. “One more question, because you could have read that off my ID. What did I bring you this morning in your booth—and what did you do with it?”

        Cecil blinked in surprise and his cheeks flushed as he closed his eyes, almost half-smiling in embarrassment. “Coffee. I—I drank all the coffee you gave me in one gulp. It…it still hurts,” he confessed quietly, his eyes flicking back up to Mitchell’s.

        Mitchell nodded firmly and sat back with relief, gazing at Cecil. But all too soon, his eyes began to fill with horror. “But if you’re the _real_ Cecil Palmer…then…”

         “Yes.” Cecil felt his heart grow hard, begin to burn. “My double is still down there, and they think he's _me_ ,” said Cecil terrifyingly darkly, his eyes darkening as well as his pupils grew large.

         “ _Shit._ ” Mitchell leaned forward determinedly, raising his cuffed hands toward the reinforced glass separating the backseat from the front, to knock on it, but Cecil quickly grabbed his hand with both of his own. “No,” he said firmly, staring Mitchell dead in the eyes. “They won’t believe you. It'll just make it worse. Trust me,” he said wryly, bitterness filling his voice. “I tried.” But as he glanced around for ideas, his sharp eyes fixed on the back window. He had to try. Hadn’t he read it somewhere? “I have an idea.”

        Mitchell stared at him in confusion. Cecil shuffled and swiveled around in his seat, until he was lying down on his back, his arms—and cuffed hands—braced behind his head against the driver’s seat. He turned his head up toward the back window, his ankles all the way against his thighs, a burning, fierce look in his eyes. Last of all, he pointed his toes back toward himself.

        Mitchell gaped. He choked out, “Cecil, what are you—?”

        Both of Cecil’s legs _smashed_ against the rear window heel-first, driving against it with an incredible bang, and loud cracks shot across the glass like lightning from the points of impact. _Not enough._ Cecil’s eyes burned even brighter as he reared back and kicked it again, smashing it even harder than the last time, letting out a strong, fierce cry, driving both feet completely through the glass as it shattered and flew out of the car, skittering onto the street.

        “Stop, _stop!_ ” the Policeman in the passenger seat yelled. “Stop it right now! _Don’t you dare!_ ”

        “Holy FUCK,” Mitchell cried, jumping in his seat. “Holy— _well done, Cecil!!”_

        Cecil was already scrambling to right himself when suddenly the car screeched to a halt, throwing both Mitchell and Cecil into the seats in front of them. The policemen opened their doors as Cecil immediately shook it off with a fierce grimace, crouched, and dove through the hole in the jagged glass onto the truck of the car, hitting the trunk with a loud thud, and then rolling off quickly onto the pavement. As soon as he hit the ground, he was off like a shot, his legs pumping like pistons despite his cuffed arms, his heart nearly bursting with adrenaline and fear, knowing that if they caught him, he would never get another chance. He heard the policemen’s footsteps _right_ behind him, but they fell behind after only a few seconds. Cecil would never run this fast again in his life. Fear—determination—love—gave him wings.

         “ _Freeze!_ ” they bellowed behind him, but Cecil just ran, zigzagging randomly across the street and through parched, scrubby lawns, breathing incredibly hard and settling into a rhythm. _Breathe. Always breathe._ A gunshot ripped through the air, slamming into the concrete only feet in front of and to the left of him, and his knees nearly gave out, but they couldn’t. He wouldn't let them—he had to run. _Freeze? They’ll have to kill me first._

         “HEY!” Mitchell screamed faintly behind him, already far away, but he couldn’t stop. Miraculously, there were no more gunshots. He ran for a few seconds more and then streaked around the street corner, back towards his home, praying with all his heart and soul that he would somehow make it to Carlos before it was too late. 

 

        However, after only a minute or two of running, Cecil’s lungs and legs were on fire, beginning to ache relentlessly, and his mouth stung with every inhalation from breathing so hard through its burns. His heels ached especially hard, probably bruised from running and kicking so hard through that thick glass. He had no idea how he’d managed it. But now his nigh-superhuman burst of energy was disappearing fast, and he was— _no, no, angels’ blood, no_ —slowing down, his body aching all over. This was the second time today he’d sprinted as absolutely as hard and fast as he could, and now he was feeling it, plus all of his injuries. His entire body screamed at him to stop, to lie down, to rest—but he _couldn’t_. He wouldn’t stop until he knew Carlos was safe.

        Suddenly, he heard a car gaining on him from behind. A Police car— _no, please_ —screeched to a halt beside him, and Cecil just about had a heart attack of panic and grief before Mitchell opened the door and shouted, “Need a ride, Mr. Palmer?”

        Cecil stumbled over his own feet, nearly tripping flat on his face as he slowed, too breathless and weary to laugh or cry in relief, too tired to question it at all. Trembling, he stepped over and pulled opened the door, falling tremendously gratefully into the seat. The millisecond he was in, Mitchell slammed his foot down and the car shot forward, tearing down the street, towards Cecil’s home.


	10. Angels' Blood

        When they turned onto Cecil’s street, Mitchell braked hard and parked on the curb two houses down from Cecil’s, turning the police car off with a quick flip of his wrist turning the key. _Stealing government property. I am so fucked._ “Plan, Mr. Palmer?” he asked.

        “Rescue Carlos,” Cecil replied, his voice thick with pain as he wrenched the door open and stumbled into the street.

        “That’s not a plan,” Mitchell said exasperatedly. He got out of the car and left the door open as he ran out in front of Cecil and grabbed both of his arms, blocking his path. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

        “ **Unhand me.** ” It was a terrifying, vicious, dark snarl, one Mitchell was not aware Cecil could produce. Mitchell, shocked, released his grip as if stung.

         “Christ, suit yourself,” he sputtered, stumbling backward.

        Cecil hurried toward his home without a backward glance, trying the door with a grim look on his face. The instant he found it locked, he picked up a brick from the flowerbed and smashed through the kitchen window. Mitchell winced. Surely, a noise like that would bring the double running.

        _The double, who has a gun. And who will probably recognize you. DAMN it._

        Mitchell stood there, torn, on the sidewalk as he watched Cecil disappear into the house through the shattered window, trying desperately to convince himself that being brave was really not worth being dead. The police would be here any second, anyway—wait, why weren’t they already here? Surely they could track him with his thoughts? He’d stolen a cop car, for Christ’s sake. And if they knew his thoughts, they would know that Cecil was really Cecil, and that he was innocent, and of the threat of the double still loomed over the house.

        _Why aren’t you guys here yet?_ thought Mitchell exasperatedly. _Help! Send backup!_ Several seconds passed. Mitchell looked around in growing concern. The street and the skies were as silent as a grave—no sirens or sounds of squealing tires or helicopters approaching. But as he spun to look up and down the street in utter disbelief, Mitchell caught movement out of the corner of his eye—a young woman in a lab coat, surely no older than himself, walking toward him with her head buried in pages on a clipboard. She didn’t even notice him—or the car. When she reached Cecil’s driveway, she glanced up briefly and then hurried up it, and enthusiastic smile radiating off her. _Can this day get ANY weirder?_

        “Excuse me!” he cried as she walked up to the door. She turned, her smile fading only a tiny bit as he came running up to her. “You—you can’t go in there,” he said, gaping at her.

        “Why not?” she said, frowning at him. “I have breaking scientific news to discuss with Carlos the Scientist, not that it’s any of your concern.” She started again toward the house.

        “Trust me!” he said frantically, jumping between her and the door, holding up both of his hands in warning. “You don’t want to go in there right now.”

        “Oh, really? And just who are you to tell…?” she demanded confusedly, trailing off as her eyes fell on Mitchell’s hands.

 

 

        Cecil stepped inside his own kitchen from the window. There wasn’t a soul in sight, and all the lights were off. He thought, fleetingly, to grab a knife. Instead, he quickly and silently stole down the hall towards the basement and crouched by the trapdoor. When he lifted, knowing in his heart it would be locked tight—up it came. It was unlocked. The same eerie, gloomy light emanated from the basement. Cecil heard low moans emanating up from the depths, and his heart nearly burst for half a second—but they didn’t sound like Carlos at all. It sounded like—Cecil strained to hear in disbelief—the _double_ was moaning! Had Carlos managed to overpower him? Was this a trap?

        Incredulous, Cecil stole down the stairs like a cat, knowing that if he needed one, his only weapon would be the element of surprise. The moans continued, growing louder, and there was a shifting and splashing sound accompanying them, as if someone was writhing in the pool of blood on the ground. “Carlos,” the double cried as Cecil peeked out from the staircase into the basement.

        Carlos was lying facedown on the middle of the basement floor, his eyes closed, the blood lapping dangerously close to his nose as Kevin, lying on top of him, ground against him, causing ripples across the whole basement. Carlos was fully dressed, but Kevin’s black dress pants hung around his knees, and he was biting Carlos’ neck while grinding into him over and over with his hips. Cecil’s mouth opened into a single O of horror and hatred as blood surged through him, ripping through his veins with an intensity he would never feel again. For a moment, frozen, he couldn’t even scream.

        “All mine,” Kevin murmured, grinding Carlos’ dark skin roughly between his teeth. Cecil covered the distance in a split second and _rammed_ into Kevin, the force of his entire body slamming into him sending them rolling across the basement.

         “Cecil!” Kevin gasped in amusement as they fought to gain control of each other’s hands, as Cecil got up on his knees to get better leverage, but Kevin fought him off, bringing his feet up tightly, planting them in Cecil’s abdomen, and shoving Cecil away with both feet. Cecil stumbled backward and fell over, landing hard. Kevin laughed delightedly. “Wait your turn!”

        Cecil’s blood burned, but he splashed over to Carlos and, without taking his eyes off Kevin, whose eyes were shining with delight as he tugged his bloody pants back on, turned Carlos gently right-side up, checking his breathing. He was alive. _We’re going to survive this,_ Cecil thought, standing up with only a slight wobble. He locked eyes with his double.

        “Get. **_Out._** ”

        “Cecil,” Kevin whispered incredibly gently, disarmingly. Cecil blinked. Kevin was suddenly upright, standing so fast that Cecil’s head spun. _How can anyone move so quickly?_ “You’re hurt, and very, very tired, Cecil. I can see it in your eyes.” Cecil gritted his teeth obstinately, but his knees wobbled, and his whole body cried out at the truth of Kevin’s words. “ _Give in_ , my dear friend. I’m going to take Carlos now, right in front of you. And we both know you’re not strong enough to stop me.”

        “Fuck you,” Cecil spat, standing in front of Carlos protectively, like a wounded sheep facing a mountain lion. “ **Over my dead body**.”

       Kevin grinned. “As you wish, Voice of Night Vale,” he purred, that wicked, evil smile ripping across the face that was so like Cecil’s—his mirror image, but flipped backwards, the face a horrifying parody of his own.

        “Who _are you_?” Cecil shot, slightly desperately, as Kevin stepped closer. Kevin gasped, clearly offended, but he didn’t slow down.

        “I’m Kevin! Surely you remember our meeting in the portal?” He was right in front of Cecil now, not even arm’s length away. “We hit off _wonderfully_ well.” His eyes glinted, polished obsidian.

        “Go back to hell, Kevin,” Cecil choked, clenching his hands into fists, ready to fight.

        “Cecil,” sighed Kevin sadly, and his hand shot up too fast to see, closing inexorably around Cecil’s throat.

        Cecil gagged and stumbled as Kevin continued walking, forcing him backwards, slamming Cecil against the wall with only one hand. _No, no, **NO**! _ Cecil choked and kicked, but Kevin only giggled and pinned Cecil to the wall with his whole body, using his free hand to grab both of Cecil’s wrists and jam them against the wall, over his head. As Cecil struggled feebly against his iron grasp, his mouth gaping silently and desperately for air, Kevin stared with pity into Cecil’s eyes with his own. Cecil realized they were blacker than the void, blacker than pits—blacker than death itself. _Please, Carlos, wake up. I can’t do this alone._

        “You really _are_ exhausted,” Kevin murmured pityingly. “I didn’t expect it to be this easy! Why did you try to fight me, you poor thing? You could have lived if you’d just learned to share.” Kevin leaned in and whispered, “Say hello to the angels for me.”

        Little black spots flickered at the edges of Cecil’s vision as his lungs burned. His struggling weakened as he felt his strength drain out of him. _I’m so sorry, Carlos. I tried._ Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes.

        “Just relax, Cecil. It’ll all be over soon.” Kevin’s face swam in darkness.

        “Kevin,” murmured a soft, caramel voice that sent Cecil’s heart reeling over the edge.

        “ _Carlos!_ ” Kevin squealed, and miraculously, _his grip loosened_. Cecil frantically heaved in one huge, desperate lungful of air before Kevin realized what he’d done, made an unhappy noise, and shoved back down again against the wall, even harder than before, almost crushing Cecil’s windpipe. Some of the blackness had ebbed away with that precious gasp, but it crawled back in mere seconds. Cecil felt despair clawing at his heart, and the knowledge that he was going to die struck him hard and fast and cold.

        “With you in a moment, Carlos,” sang Kevin, surveying Cecil with distaste, as if irritated with him for not dying more quickly.

        “Please, Kevin…” Carlos stirred—ripples passed across the floor—and paused for a fraction of a second. His next words were thick and pained. “Now, _please_ …I want you…n-need you…” Carlos spoke the words with exceedingly great difficulty, his eyelids fluttering and his teeth gritted from the effort.

        Kevin’s eyes lit up light twin suns as he released Cecil fully, _finally,_ letting him collapse onto the bloody ground and desperately gulp in jagged, shuddering, life-saving breaths, the darkness slowly receding. “ _Dearest_ Carlos,” Kevin uttered reverently, and Cecil heard Kevin stretch out onto Carlos again, heard the double’s grunts and soft moans pick up.

        Cecil, still wheezing, _screamed_ at himself to get up, to lift his head. His body shuddered and bucked from exhaustion, but he forced himself to put his palms on the wet ground and lift himself up. He would _not_ give up. He would _never_ stop fighting for Carlos.

        There was a shifting noise, and the moans from Kevin picked up, coupled with— _no_. Groans from Carlos. Cecil’s blood burned, _singed_ like acid or lava flowing through his veins. Cecil managed to push his torso off the ground and leaned heavily against the wall, panting—but he was facing the wrong way. His back was to them both.

        Suddenly, there was a thud and a simultaneous loud crack. Cecil’s mind screamed, a long, tormented, echoing wail. _No, not Carlos, please no no NO!!—_

        There was near silence. Only the slightest shuffling sounds could be heard from Kevin’s direction. Cecil couldn’t move, and his eyes were screwed shut, his weary body shaking like never before. Terror gripped him, keeping him frozen where he was, his breaths choked and desperate. Grief threatened to tear his heart apart.

        Finally, he heard someone stand, and footsteps rushed quickly to his side. Cecil flinched at the sound of someone kneeling down in front of him, and his body automatically tucked his chin into his chest, trying to protect him from the murderous touch he had no doubt would come.

        He gasped as he felt a hand tenderly caress his cheek, gliding softly to the back of his head and tilting it up. Warm fingers trembled as they brushed his hair from his face, and Cecil finally opened his eyes; vibrant purple met deep, steady brown. “Cecil,” said Carlos softly, a vow, a prayer, brimming with too many emotions to name, and his eyes were so full of love and pain that Cecil’s heart metaphorically burst.

        Cecil’s mouth trembled, struggling to form a single word, his violet eyes shining. “C-car…los…” And finally, staring into his scientist’s eyes, relief and hope and joy coursed through Cecil’s body, lifting the weight off his shoulders and off his heart, making him feel like he would float away if Carlos wasn’t grounding him to Earth. Cecil’s eyelids fluttered shut and his body went limp, falling neatly into Carlos’ arms, his head dropping onto Carlos’ chest as his consciousness flew away.


	11. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT'S THE END. HALLELUJAH.

        Cecil drifted in and out.

        “…found this note on his desk, after he ran…”

        “…communicate by telepathy…never heard the show before…”

        “…and when I realized…blood on his hands, it made perfect sense…”

        “…what incredible timing…”

        “…remarkable properties…we were so lucky we took that sample when we did. It was probably just before Kevin got to them.” The words were dark.

        Cecil tensed and stirred, a small moan escaping him. Fear pricked at his heart.

        “Cecil?” Carlos said, to his left, and Cecil felt a hand around his own squeeze gently. “It’s okay, _querido_. You’re safe. It’s alright.”

        Cecil turned toward the voice, opening his eyes, and _yes_ , there he was. Carlos, sitting there beside the bed, wearing a fresh lab coat and clean clothes, his hair _perfect,_ his eyes smoldering, smiling. Cecil’s vision was a bit fuzzy, but his heartbeat spiked crazily and his face flushed, giddy with pleasure at the thought that that perfect, stunning smile was meant for him. _God_ , how could he be so _gorgeous_ so _effortlessly_?

        Cecil found himself speechless, staring at Carlos in pure awe, drinking in his image. Carlos himself blushed and bit his lip, his hand reaching up to softly stoke Cecil’s cheek. Cecil’s drew in a sharp, tiny breath.

        “Get a _room,_ you two,” said Kathleen loudly, and Mitchell laughed, a full sound that rang warmly through the room.

        Carlos gave the two an amused, embarrassed smile that warmed Cecil’s entire body before leaning down and brushing his lips against Cecil’s forehead. “Sorry,” he murmured, the hand on Cecil’s cheek sliding down to his jawline, his thumb trailing behind. “Sometimes it’s just…so hard to help myself.”

        That about did it for Cecil. His breath hitched, his heart hammering against his chest, and he had to suppress a tiny moan.

        “Sheesh, I get the picture. We’ll leave,” said Kathleen, gathering up her purse.

        “No, no, please,” said Carlos, withdrawing from the bed a little, throwing Cecil an apologetic glance. “Cecil’s probably quite confused. I’d really appreciate you two being here, to help explain all that’s happened.”

        Cecil blinked, and finally took in his full surroundings. He was lying in a hospital bed. Carlos was seated directly to his left, while Kathleen and Mitchell were sitting in chairs beyond the foot of his bed.  His disappointment that Carlos had drawn back was suddenly drowned under the thousand questions flooding into Cecil’s mind at once. “How did we get here? What happened to Kevin? Carlos, what happened?” He stared about in confusion, babbling. “How long—” _have I been here?_ “How—” _did Kathleen get involved?_ “When did—” _the police arrive?_ And suddenly, one question flared above all others. “Why didn’t they recognize me?” he said, indignation firing through his distinctive voice.

        “Easy, Cecil, take it easy,” said Carlos, his voice full of understanding and concern, gently but firmly pushing Cecil back down onto the bed. “We’ll start from the beginning.” He glanced at Mitchell, who looked uncomfortable and swallowed.

        “Cecil, you heard this part already. I saw Kevin in the parking lot and I thought he was you. He told me he had a surprise for Night Vale, and I thought it was creepy, but I didn’t call the police or anything.” His expression darkened considerably—he was obviously kicking himself internally.

         “No, don’t do that,” Cecil said emphatically. “You couldn’t have known, Mitchell. It’s not your fault.”

        Mitchell met his eyes briefly and nodded, still looking discomfited. “He gave me the coin—battery—as a ‘token of appreciation,’ which is why I got away with ‘he bribed me.’ I didn’t know what I was doing when I took that for him.” His expression hardened again. Before Cecil could comment, Kathleen quickly butted in.

        “ _But_ without you, I never would have known what was going on, and I would have probably gone in there and gotten myself contaminated as well, and then we’d _all_ be in SSP custody,” she admonished heatedly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “And Cecil might never have made it there unless you drove him. You were such a huge help. None of us would be here, safe, now, without you.”

         Mitchell looked startled, and stared at the hand for a second, before his face lit up and he gave her a tiny smile. “Thanks,” he said quietly, looking like he was at a loss for words. He cleared his throat. “Uh, and then I found Kevin's note after the power went out in the studio and realized what happened, and drove to Cecil’s house. Saw them bring him out, realized they had the wrong guy, and tried to help. You know the rest, Cecil.”

        “Until _we_ met outside,” Kathleen added pointedly, “where we swapped stories, and suddenly the lack of police and Cecil’s false arrest made perfect sense, because all of you were contaminated.”

        “Contaminated?” Cecil chimed in, glancing from person to person.

        “With angels’ blood,” Kathleen clarified. "We've been doing research."

        “The Secret Police can’t read minds through it,” Carlos said softly. “So Kevin…covered himself and the basement in it, so that we wouldn’t be discovered. And, after we got it on our skin, the SSP couldn’t read us, either. They didn’t recognize your voice, Cecil, because they monitor us all through mind reading—it’s their job. They don’t listen to the show—they just listen to your thoughts. So because of their first impression, and because they couldn’t read your mind when they brought you out of the basement, they assumed they must have arrested the double.” Carlos looked gravely and wryly into Cecil’s eyes as the information clicked. “Apparently, they didn’t even question Kevin before leaving. They did, however, confiscate the gun and the drugs he used—and thank goodness for that. Otherwise…” Carlos didn’t finish his sentence, watching as Cecil processed all of it.

        “And the whole blood thing is why they didn’t come running after we stole the car,” added Mitchell, before Cecil could speak. “Somehow I got angels’ blood from you on my hands, Cecil, so we both vanished to them. They couldn’t track us.”

        “Why did they leave the house without you?” growled Cecil heatedly. “Kevin—” he gasped and locked eyes with Carlos, searching for how much had been done. Carlos reassuringly and laid a hand on Cecil’s arm. “He didn’t do anything to me, Cecil. Just a few bite marks and bruises, that’s the worst of it.”

        Cecil _glowered_ , half-raising himself off the bed again, but Carlos pushed him back down. “No, _cariño_. Rest, please.”

        As much as Cecil wanted to hunt Kevin down and tear him apart, he couldn’t bear to ignore Carlos’ request. But his blood still coursed through him as the memories flashed through his brain. “How did you overpower him?” Cecil asked Carlos, trying to keep his voice relatively calm.

        Carlos gave Cecil a half-smile that made his heart melt. “I sucker-punched him,” Carlos admitted, slightly embarrassed, running one hand bashfully through his hair before clasping Cecil’s hand in both of his own. “He wasn’t expecting it. I went for the jaw at an angle and struck him as hard as I could. I don’t normally condone violence, but I…I saw what he was doing to you.” Carlos’ voice grew so dark, and his eyes shifted so far away, that Cecil shuddered and squeezed his hand tightly with his own, slender fingers. Carlos blinked, and gave him a small smile, as if relieved to see Cecil alive and well in front of him.

        Cecil reached up and touched the light bruising on Carlos’ face. The swelling in his eye had gone down completely, but his check was still tinted lightly from Kevin’s blows.

        “I’m healing remarkably fast,” said Carlos lightly as he watched Cecil’s eyes darken. “We think the angels’ blood might have something to do with it, because you’re healing rapidly, as well.”

        Cecil was having none of it. “Where is he? Where’s Kevin, Carlos?”

        Mitchell and Kathleen exchanged glances, while Carlos closed his eyes and looked down at Cecil's hand, stroking it gently with his fingers. The silence lengthened as the secret stretched out, growing unbearably tense.

        “ _Well?_ ” Cecil demanded.

        “We don’t know, Cecil. He ran, and the police haven’t been able to find him.” Out of all of them, Mitchell replied. Carlos’ face tightened, and he watched warily for Cecil’s reaction, and Kathleen shot Mitchell a dirty look, making him wince.

        “Thank you, Mitchell,” said Cecil pointedly, looking Mitchell directly in the eyes. He racked his mind for something else to say. “Oh! And I’m very sorry for snapping at you, outside the house. It was mean of me.” Mitchell shook his head and cracked a half-smile. “No worries,” he said. “I know why you did. Oh, and uh,” he continued, pulling something off his pant leg and holding it up for Cecil to see. Its spindly legs wiggled, and Mitchell let it scurry onto his hand. “Your phone really likes me, I think. It keeps following me everywhere, and it sort of...cries if I leave. Um. Do you think…I could maybe…keep it?”

        Cecil stared and almost laughed aloud at his phone, which scuttled down Mitchell’s sleeve as he gasped. “It’s yours,” he said. “I’ll buy another.”

        Cecil glanced at Carlos, who was still watching him for his reaction to Kevin's disappearance. “I’m okay. Really,” he said firmly.

        Carlos studied him carefully, and then nodded. His eyes flickered down to Cecil’s hand, which was still held in both of his own, and suddenly he leaned forward and stared deeply into Cecil’s eyes, desperately, searching them. “I—I could have pursued him, Cecil,” admitted Carlos intensely. “He woke up just a few seconds after you lost consciousness. He might have…stayed…but the police were coming, and he heard the sirens and bolted. I…I let him go.” Carlos’ eyes burned into his. “Forgive me, please.”

        “Carlos,” said Cecil immediately, astonished, clutching his hand tightly. “There’s _nothing_ to forgive. How could I be mad at you for—for staying by my side? For not putting yourself in unnecessary danger?! What if he’d—” Cecil shuddered wildly. “No, _thank you_ for not going after him. Please, don’t ever do that. I love you, and I want you safe, not anywhere _near_ him. **Ever**.”

        Carlos finally smiled, his eyes still slightly haunted, and leaned even further towards Cecil. “I won’t, _cariño_. Now, you make me the same promise, because I feel the same way.”

        Cecil drew in a huge breath to protest, but Carlos’ expression stopped him. It was firm, but shadowed by dark tones that Cecil had never seen before—hatred, regret, and unspeakable fear. And Cecil remembered, with a jolt of pain, that Carlos had watched Kevin strangle him against a wall, until he was too weak to fight back—Carlos had almost watched him _die_.

        “I promise,” said Cecil. And he meant it.

        Carlos smiled, brought Cecil’s hand up to his lips, and kissed his knuckles lightly again, sending an electric shiver up Cecil’s spine.

        “Cecil,” Kathleen interjected, giving Mitchell a sly look. “Mitchell and I’ll get out of your hair in a minute, I promise. But I think there’s something we’d like you to see before we go.”

        “Oh, yeah!” said Mitchell suddenly, digging into his own pocket and pulling something out, just out of Cecil’s sight. He closed his fingers around it, returning Kathleen’s look, and grinned.

        “What’s that?” said Cecil curiously, tearing his eyes away from Carlos’ gently amused, knowing expression.

        “You’ll see,” replied Kathleen with a mischievous grin of her own as she stood from her chair, taking Mitchell’s free hand and pulling him up as well. His face blanched in shock as she pulled him over to the bed and took the object from him, handing it to Carlos. He accepted it with one hand and, his brown eyes shining, slowly held it up for Cecil to see.

        Cecil gasped. His watch. And it was ticking, quietly, firmly, steadily, like a tiny heart.

        “You fixed it,” he whispered, tears pricking at his eyes.

        Carlos’ reply was soft as Cecil’s whisper. “It was never broken, _mi amor_.” Carlos lifted Cecil’s wrist delicately and deftly fastened the watch around it, giving Cecil’s hand a soft squeeze when he was done.

        Cecil glanced back at Kathleen and Mitchell. Kathleen was staring at him, watching his expression with a look of pure happiness, leaning her head on Mitchell’s shoulder. Mitchell’s face and ears were now a fiery red, but an incredulous smile lit his entire face as he met Cecil’s gaze.

        “Thank you all so much,” Cecil choked, fighting back the tears, glancing back at his wrist.

        “My pleasure,” said Mitchell, a little breathlessly. Kathleen laughed, pulling her head up to look at him—the two’s fingers were still intertwined—before turning her head to Cecil to reply. Her voice sparkled. “You’re so welcome, Cecil. And I think we’ll leave you too alone now,” she said, winking at Carlos. He had the decency to blush, his dark skin deepening as color dashed across his cheeks.

        As the door closed behind them, Cecil let out a breath he realized he’d been holding for a long, long time. And suddenly he was crying, completely overwhelmed, sobs wracking his body and making him gasp again and again. Carlos climbed into bed beside him and turned him on his side, holding him, steady, firm, from behind, as though he would never let him go.

        “Thank _you_ , so much,” murmured Carlos into his hair, kissing the top of his head tenderly even as Cecil sobbed. Carlos paused. “I read that note, and...Cecil, I’m so, so sorry.” His voice wavered uncharacteristically.

        “Not your fault, don’t say that,” hiccupped Cecil between sobs. He breathed in and out firmly, trying to get his crying under control. “Don’t even think it.” Carlos held him, stroking his hair with one hand, until Cecil’s sobs fell quiet. After a minute of the sweet, simple pleasure of those fingers lightly running through his hair, Cecil actually began to hum.

        Eventually, with a small sigh, Carlos slid down a little on the bed and kissed the nape of his neck, making Cecil’s breath catch a little. “Oh, Cecil. I love you _so much_. I’m _so_ sorry, I—” The words were wrought with emotion, and Carlos suddenly cut himself off. He was trembling.

        “Oh, Carlos, I love you, too,” whispered Cecil, his tears drying on his cheeks. And then he turned around in bed, to face Carlos, looking directly into his eyes. When he found pain, and grief, and worry there, he brought his slim fingers up to Carlos’ face, tracing lightly over his beautiful skin. When his fingertips glided up into Carlos’ hair, Carlos winced involuntarily, Cecil saw the pain flash in his eyes. Cecil’s eyes widened and he jerked his hand back, opening his mouth to apologize, but Carlos quickly put two fingers over Cecil’s lips and shook his head, smiling. He reached up and guided Cecil’s hand back to his head, never breaking eye contact.

        Cecil very, very slowly skated his fingers through Carlos’ hair. Carlos watched him intently. Cecil drew his hand back and did it again, slowly, tenderly, and repeated the intimate motion, over and over, time after time after time, until his hand ached from holding it up so long, and suddenly Carlos moved forward and kissed him, pulling his face into his own, so passionately that Cecil’s face lit on fire. He twined his fingers through Carlos’ hair unthinkingly, and Carlos stiffened. Cecil pulled back immediately. “Is that not okay?” he whispered, withdrawing, holding his hands tightly against his chest. “I’m sorry.”

        “No, that’s what I wanted you to do,” said Carlos quietly. “It’s okay. We’re going to pull through this, and help each other. It might take some time, but we will.” Carlos paused, searching for the right words. Finally, he simply smiled softly.

         “We’re going to heal.”

        Cecil smiled. Carlos picked up Cecil’s hands and replaced them in his hair. Cecil hesitantly wove his fingers into Carlos’ beautiful locks, and Carlos nodded slowly, staring deeply into Cecil’s eyes. His beautiful, violet eyes, which were full of concern and love and caution and care, belonging to a man who loved him with all of his heart and who would never, ever hurt him. Carlos closed his eyes and let it all go, pulling Cecil into a kiss even more passionate than the last. They kissed each other, and their hearts, like two songbirds set free, took flight, soared into the sky.


End file.
